my black book / re helen [not of troy] 41 to 49

40, is in ‘Blue Room’
47 in blue room

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From:“TheIncident Started on the Crosswalk
Kitchen MONOLOGUE.
Where are you, pot? Deep pot! ­Better-than-a-frying-pan! ­Quicker-than-the-Voc! ­A lady, may bend down, to graab! at a pot. Rena-Ware! Solid steel!­Cooks from all directions. There. Sit on the fire. “Oil.” ­NO. LET’S NOT HAVE HIM, BURN. “Getting hot.” ­“Allow the heated oil to cool, then put it on the flame again. Avoids sticking.” Why can’t I speak to pots & pans and mutter tips and/or instructions like others grumble their prayers ­“Back on the fire. In with the chopped garlic. Don’t have to chop it too small. That’s for those who hope the garlic would melt away, Amen. The same with the onion. ­At least the size of the ball they play cricket with. Cut off small shells as you turn the onion around above the pot. Ditto. No hurry.”

­Cut three dried chillies into the heating garlic and onions. Here comes that noise of the chillies, crackling with the onions in the heat. Here comes the smoke, rushing through the flat, and through the windows to everywhere. I hope that bastard who keeps smoking under my window is there, now. Let his eyes burn! Let him rub them till they refuse to come out! ­I’m sure the lollipop man thinks I’m only pretending to scold him. Like it’s some kind of ritual joke. ­Just because I happen to fall down in that same spot on the crosswalk every little while. So patronizingly, he comes towards me like he’s got the right excuse to reach to touch me. If he only knew that it is the way that he looks at me which keeps me losing my balance, right in that very same place, each time that I fall. His eyes size up like torchlights, which pry and interfere. –My ideal: is tall, dark and handsome, fatso! ­Just because I’m a little big.

­Now, get to know each other, when I stop stirring you, around, and get some meat for you to play with. ­Hullo! ­Where, are the chicken pieces? Where are you, chicken? Have you been reading, Mary Shelley, again? ­Sorry! It’s diced turkey! Gobble-gobble! Revel in this jelly from the pork roast. –And some diced roast pork. –Diced beef. How do you like that? Here’s a shower of mixed herbs. ­And China’s five-spice mix. _NO! ­NOT MY TYPE, AT ALL. I WONDER IF HE HAS READ, MARY SHELLEY?

­That tall fellow was not so appetizing….._


GERTY: [she has, decidedly, been put off] Did you see that? The lollipop man

went to her aid, and she just scolded him.

GLADYS: It is the way she is. Queer. Has her own reasons for doing things.

GERTY: Somebody should give her a talking to.

GLADYS: It’s been tried.

GERTY: Can’t anyone get through to her?

GLADYS: I’m sure she will listen if you talked to her. Unless she is hurrying off

somewhere.

GERTY: Does she just dismiss what others say to her?

GLADYS _[still matter of factly; still almost in monotone; still refuses to get

excited]:_ It depends on what you say to her. I’m sure she’d listen first.

GERTY: But you said, It’s been tried., as though it were a pointless exercise.

GLADYS: I did not mean that the effort would be wasted on her: I meant that you

would be wasting your time. She is a nice person, really.

GERTY: She could have fooled me.

GLADYS: She certainly will.

GERTY: Is she dangerous?

GLADYS: She is capable.

GERTY: What do you mean?

GLADYS: Some kind of genius.

GERTY [she is sure she has been given too little evidence]: How did you work that

out?

GLADYS: The lollypop man told me.

GERTY [this does not improve her believability]: How does he know?

GLADYS [ignoring her implication]: He’s been here for four years’

GERTY: I’m sure you’re not saying that because it’s a school crosswalk that he’s

walked on for four years!

GLADYS: No, someone else told him about her.

GERTY: Oh! I thought you mea…

GLADYS: Listening and remembering becomes ‘knowing’ , also.

GERTY:

GLADYS:

GERTY: [dramatic pause]

GLADYS:

GERTY: Is she a genius?

GLADYS: In the colloquial way. As far as we know. She reads all the time,

Looks at you vaguely, like her mind is already busy with other things. She always

seems to be muttering as though reciting formulae. Actually, if she gets close

enough, you’d hear what may be German words, because she’s softly singing

Beethoven’s “Song Of Joy”. – At a brisk pace. As though she were only counting

the syllables, to decipher something.

GERTY: [looks a bit disappointed]………………-No wonder she falls on her face

on a crosswalk, and then scolds the lollypop man who tries to help her! Don’t you

think that she may be a little…….? _[puts her finger to the side of her head and

mimes the gesture of drawing a spiral, to denote madness]._

GLADYS: Oh She does that quiet often, too!

GERTY [anticipating more disbelief]: What……….’s she do, “quite often, too?”

GLADYS: Falls down there. At that very place. At that curb of the crosswalk.

GERTY: {looks startled: says nothing: awaits an explanation]

GLADYS: It is because the lollypop man is overly protective, that she scolds him

like she does. This is a primary school. She treats any approach by a man as if he

were going to insist on feeding her.sweets. .She knows what men do. She _is not

stupid._ –If you know what I mean.

GERTY: But she . . . [as though she has found a point to make].

GLADYS: Yes, I know. He actually does think of her as beautiful. –The lollypop

man. He jokes it’s because she wears glasses. She also, notices that he finds her

attractive, Maybe that is why she falls down there more than a few times. Other

things can work as psychosomatic, does. He is sometimes too busy with his

crosswalk to get to her before she’s away. Or, helped by others. –The kids.

–The mothers.

GERTY: Does she scold them too?

GLADYS [not wanting to help at all]: No . . .Maybe one day she will

let the lollypop man help her to her feet. . .

GERTY: So, you believe in Romance!

GLADYS: I’m dreading it. They have this little crosswalk pantomime of theirs, so

perfected, that anything more will only clash with all the anticipations each has

built subjectively. That’s what “Why spoil a beautiful friendship?” really means.

GERTY: You seem to be very clear about everything. Are you sure that you are

not just programming them; like a clairvoyant who causes things to happen? -Are

you a bit in love with him?

GLADYS: No. He’s got someone. But he can put his shoes under my bed

anytime. He has grown on me.

GERTY: You must have your own pantomime. An off-crosswalk pantomime.

GLADYS: Her name is “Dulcinea”

GERTY: Really?

GLADYS: No.

GERTY: [is silent].

GLADYS: Do you see that car there, the one that just passed by? The lollypop

man says the driver often waves at him. He says he thinks it is Elizabeth Jolly,

maybe. He also says the number on her number plate is the same as his grandpa’s

house: 729.

GERTY: Does she know him

GLADYS: He says she just waves to the uniform; she wouldn’t recognize him

out of it.

GERTY: Oh here comes my Little Holly! Hello Darling! -Bye Glad.

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all poems tell their definition of poetry in their narration. thiis one calls poetry a nonce, i think; a one-of poem, the only other poem like this would be a copy.
no, tis a novel! i should be writing.

It started the other morning, walking uphill to my Hollywood Primary School, crosswalk. My shadow, again, made out the cornel, horseless, nevertheless is walking home with his/a/the crackerling gun weighted on his left elbow, there, in its dance even as I walk aong the pavement

trickster (swallowing-bulbs, tri1ckster [see-what-i-do, fella])
and then the kiss that

i heard money proportionately be diverted to the people if their money as government handout bought up 51%‘s of banks, & ___. it not that easy, so: is therre a short answer why it won’t work?

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WAS IT NOT ABOUT KING CANUTE, THEN?

06:07:48 2001-05-21

Was almost like, from the woods you come
always Red Riding Hood red
then rising from the bed
when I trekked the roads
sat-morns to see you
the galloping I did then had
more to do with my pulse
and some dread
only reading Bloomsbury
pleased me
others too, could
stand and declare knowing both ways
but choose alternate to sitting mute.

Nothing special even about standing
on shore and telling the waves to halt
[they do, you know:
waves halt, during
that second af-
-ter which they sink\
withdraw, at the
accomoda
ting beach lying there:
nymphomaniac!
a goddess hag,
by now, surely
you’d need to think:
but no, not so,
each wave’s the one
existential,
ism, display
ing uniqueness
:one can say so.]

Them al are things ya do ‘cause
yous not just an ole, dust, bin, to puts things in.
Yer talks yerself ‘cause yers no radio thing,
anoising about a whole lotta things everywheres
waitin’ on yerself to tune the knob to do some lissning.
Using your head is not pretending you
have an encyclopaedia up there:
just owning up to what’s been decided there
about what your five senses have been reporting.
Using yer ‘ead’s no more than speechifying
regarding what it sez inside yer ‘ead.

Riding that som’-wheels thing, they calls ‘bus’,
that one a lefts over truck from the second war,
which they’d gon’ an’ don’ up, some:
I can just see’d them truckin’ us lorry full!
God! I’s a refugee, then! them, as me!
Seems it aint just all them and theyselves.
All’s a matter of you bein’ there too,
with them, maybe on the other side again.

they tooks him and they
plucks his eyes out, and
cuts him off his tongue,
punctured his ears, both,
cut his nose, to boot.

theys puts him in a cage
then, and hauls him up,
high up as the steeple,
were a church there
to make a measure.

he could na see, he,
couldna hear a thyng.
wonder if the crows,
insects, maybe, rats,
found their way to him.

he couldna sing or
even narrate his plight;
nor hear the lament,
could he articulate.

all them hours of minutes
and weeks of days
and eternities of later-on.
‘e could but count bites,
pecks, whole lotta nibbles
of a whole of a lot o’ him
a slow wearin’ away,
it seemed like.

they didn’t know when he died:
always he’s still up there
until he blows away.

I read they just so
hauled ‘em high, in China,
then, some kind o’ women;
in cages also, just leaves ‘em, they did
hanging in high baskets
until they did die and rot,
or maybe also until
theys did just blows away.

was not so long ago,
not much earlier than,
they locked up people,
concentrated them
in places in Europe

although the most
concentrated of all
was New York City
Manhattan Island

all the refugees were
examined and lodged
somewheres in the city
instead of vast america

it does appear like,
though none ‘ve said so,
Manhattan Island was
a prisonlike island until
linked to the mainland
by the Brooklyn Bridge

buts dat place, it
then becomes self-sufficient
and stinking rich,
a little place of
every little thing.

Nothing said here is
here for anything than
leading on from the
very line before

but a birthday poem
to H M Moore,
Helen Margaret
24012001
09:50:07 2001 01 24

let one just summon Sir Describe, knave to Lord Lexicon,
say: no more, this, than the thoughts in the bus
along the way to her…
suddenly remembering
the POST report, picture ‘an al’,
that these busses, now as I sits inside,
soon to be ‘withdrawn from service’,
WERE the same trucks in use in World War Two,
done-up to use as busses, after,
if maybe only to be props for the poet later to write a poem, thinking: is there no worse way to die?

I’ll just say I like Gunther Grass, still, and an Irish writer,
I just read [Is it O’Conner?],plus, a style of writing I can-
not place, at the moment, something I called wholesome…
Gives all my books and things to Helen if I die before I can…/—

Proximity means close
Clothes I have to put on all day
They will not realize me wearing
Bearing you tied on to me
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what i wrote was poetry for first yr mag legally stopped before distribution:
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Poetry is something a poet writes; no matter w…. The only problem seems to be with words thrown on the page like we’ve seen paints thrown on canvass. whether or not a poem has to have meaning; is it not true that we are not conscious of everything involved as we write the poem? no problem, if I leave the poem saying what I want it to say. If it wants to say something else on its own, logic has it, it will say it any way. A poem says something as soon as you look at it: its physical presence, whatever. The person who is about to read the poem also has the same problem part of the enmeshed perception, which reads the poem. The only important thing about consciousness is that I have to decide on whether I have written a poem. the poem as finished AND It isn’t that it is suddenly there like a used condom thrown in the open window, from a passing car

. They say a monkey with a computer can, a computer, on its own, can produce Shakespeare’s Sonnets, given ‘X’ number of years. I’d like to be around t see whether the monkey or the computer will then stop, knowing it has produced the sonnets. it is a matter of what the poet, now conscious, decides

I can pick out any number of words from a bag filled with words, and decide the alignment to be a poem, but it will be my decision. If the words fell out of the bag in the same order on the floor, they’ll just stay until kicked, swept or blown away. –Again, the human element, the conscious one.

.
.
.
.

.

There were no computers, so it did not look like a hospital. It seemed more like a place of shadows and dim lighting, as though so as not to outdo what used to be the use of candles. You kept thinking that it was candle light, liable to be blown off,
instead of the neon lighting that it was. I was again in those backrooms of those overstocked secondhand.
I immediately resigned from the ‘Corps of Pipes and Drums’, Rugby, Legion of Mary, and The Debating Society: and took my self to the library each day after school. I told those in charge of those various extra- I wonder what the truth is about that lollipop man? He always has a book in his hand. Even while he is directing the traffic. What if he is as nice as that front he has on the crosswalk. [Seen enough of those!] -There is that wonderful prescription for losing weight: just walk together for miles and miles and miles, and make a lot of stops.
curricular activities, that my mother wanted me to concentrate on studying for my examinations; they knew my mother: I was free.
Part of me had always wanted to become a priest: then, I was sure I was one.
I recall names like Khalil Gibran, Bertrand Russell, Thomas A’ Kempis, Freud; the name of one more martyr every day; Homer… Much of this did not approach understanding, especially Homer (because I had a girl I liked who was named Helen), who turned out to be the hardest, because I could not understand that which I was reading so simply. All the writers entered my head for a long period of adjustment. (I also read the play with that for its title, by Tennessee Williams; and many others, favouring, “Suddenly Last Summer” and “The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Any More”). I read bits of Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast”, which, together with a book about Gertrude Stein, I had taken home for my mother from the librarian. James Baldwin’s “Fire Next Time”, was one book I came across and read and retained very little of. I read a book written by a Chinese defector who, as it were, told about growing up in Communist China.
Then I found Irving Stones’s “Lust For Life”. And Dostoyevski’s “The Gambler”, on the bookshelf, at home. And “Crime and Punishment” in another secondhand bookshop; as well as “Canterbury Tales”, which led me to think that they could not know about the books that the school books mention with praise (maybe their being a Christian Brother’s School, had to do with this).
I was a very intelligent kid when I failed my Senior Cambridge Examination. Not only were my parents shocked, everyone was, including my teachers. I wasn’t. I remember taking my Leaving Papers around for each teacher to put some comments on. The Official School Leaving Papers had almost nothing of what the teachers wrote. There should have been a xerox machine there; I should have photocopied them: words like ‘dynamic’, ‘idealistic’ & ‘responsible’. I did realise that those words would look out of place on a result sheet which indicated failure; I was satisfied that I had seen those words written.
I had to return to school, St Xavier’s Institution, Pulau Pinang, Malaysia Barat, to have those ‘leaving’ documents processed. I had already started writing letters to the newspaper. One started by commenting on comments made against South Africa’s apartheid, and ended by the, therefore, inappropriate frowns at mixed marriages: those teachers would have realised that I was writing about neither, but about arithmetic
I think I have written enough for extrapolation; I am attaching three pieces of writing:
Two poems, one attempt at a new preamble for a new constitution for Australia, and a page of my newly started Journal of Writing, begun in anticipation of resuming tertiary studies.
I did not make use o f the opportunity at the time. The circumstances which caused my bad performance at Edith Cowan University still prevailed. I was still doing the kind of morning cleaning which held me back from attending classes, often
I was also doing evening cleaning.
All this has now changed
Since 1992 I have been classified as “unemployed”. This year Centrelink registered me with PEP Employment, for retraining. I completed an introductory Computer Course at Canning College.

On completion of the Computer Course PEP Employment suggested, that I look toward a full-time course instead of the subsequent units which Canning College was offering at $100 for each course of eight-week duration. They would accumulate cost but not point toward anything definite.
When I telephoned AUS-Study they told me that I would receive the same amount
[2000-01-05: THIS WAS
LATER DENIED BY CENTERLINK]

of money that I am receiving now as New Start Allowance because of the length of my unemployment.
Now I can pursue full-time study without having to work as well.
I studied Religious Studies when I attended Edith Cowan University in 1986 at Claremont. I would like to return to Edith Cowan University to study Creative Writing and English Literature.
I am attaching to this letter two or three pieces of writing. One is a poem; another is an attempt at writing a preamble for the new constitution; the third is a page of some writing I have done in what I named: A Journal of Writing, Edith Cowan University, in anticipation.
THANK You!
Dear-,5/26/99
I have also attended Edith Cowan University to study (unsuccessfully) Religious Studies in 1986. I was put down for unsatisfactory progress, because I had missed a few classes, which I had been unable to attend because of extra work at my morning cleaning job.
. It is this cleaning job which has been interfering with my studies. In 1981, because of an inspection, I had to work at QE II right through the night until half an hour before the exam at the end of the year, at the Sports Centre, UWA. What has happened is that I am now at PEP Employment for retraining, and I elected to do tertiary studies so as to become a teacher. I have completed an INTRODUCTION to become familiar with the computer, and I have sat for the STAT Exam on 22051999. I am going to try everything to get back to do tertiary studies. I have even thought of doing units, which would allow me, later, to do law. I am doing a lot of reading. -A lot of hist, lately.
June 16, 1999 (James Joyce Day!)
NOREEN RICHARDS
THE STUDENT SYSTEMS OFFICER:
SCHOOL OF COMMUNICATION AND CULTURAL STUDIES
BENTLEY CAMPUS KENT STREET
BENTLEY WA 6102 TEL: (08) 9266 7132 FAX:08)9266 7726
Noreen Richards
Qualifications Assessment Officer
Academic Registrar’s Office
Curtin University of Technology
GPO Box 1987
PERTH WA 6285

Dear -,
I am interested in doing English Literature, and, Creative Writing at Curtin University.
This year Centrelink sent me to register for retraining with PEP Employment (9321 0011 Louise).

Now I saw that I could pursue full-time study without having to work as well, since the New Start Allowance is the amount that I am earning. My two part- time jobs only reduce the amount of the allowance, after the initial $60.
I sat for the STATS examination on 22 May 1999; I am attaching the results.
…..Dostoyevski’s “The Gambler”, on the bookshelf, at home. And “Crime and Punishment” in another secondhand bookshop; as well as “Canterbury Tales…
…I like Gunther Grass and Lawrence Durrell and Modern Poetry. If not reading it daily, for some reason, suddenly, I have to read poetry like I haven’t eaten for too long…

Only the enrolment day itself prevents me from already being an Edith Cowan University ENGLISH student. I do not mean to say anything against EDU but when I thought I wanted to do Creative Writing I was always thinking of Curtin University. It is exactly as you have written in your Handbook: You are reputed for being the best at teaching creative writing. I heard this a long time ago, and that is why I want to hone what I already possess in the presence of the best perception.
I only applied to Edith Cowan University because I needed to get accepted now: I read that you only closed enrolments in September. I have since received an offer from Murdoch University, to do History. I am writing to ask whether I’d have a chance, then: I will wait.
I am sending you my STATS results and a few things I have written. Please see whether I am worthwhile material for what you demand your students to already have.

I wonder what the truth is about that lollipop man? He always has a book in his hand. Even while he is directing the traffic. What if he is as nice as that front he has on the crosswalk. [Seen enough of those!] -There is that wonderful prescription for losing weight: just walk together for miles and miles and miles, and make a lot of stops.
[BATHROOM MONOLOGUE.]

I wonder if they would know that I was only repeating the words the writer was putting into my mouth? Like, if the Earth were a computer, and, evolution were true, our lives would very much have to do with tapes unreeling… -Would they understand about my wondering if the chicken had read about Frankenstein? -Bloody Egghead! The writer thinks I don”t have a mind of my own. It is artificial Determinism, the forced way that they make characters live, in a play. If the Earth were a computer, it would have decided for us everything we think we do freely. And Earth would be a stage, like the fella said.

Mmmmmmmmm! So nice and warm this water is. –Bit more room there.

-The chook, put itself together, and flew off. ­What else? Mary Shelley was a young hen when she wrote “Frankenstein”. I still think that the monster she was thinking of was Percy’s building up of Byron.

Since cats still gawk at queens, chucks can do what Frankenstein did. He didn’t do a thing! He’s fiction! Mary did it all! Besides, only human beings have ever named that mental activity of theirs as ‘intelligence’. It is possible that what they call brain is nothing but the unraveling of a computer program. Maybe even going backwards. So that, it is memory ­when they speak clairvoyant [instead of speaking rhinoceros, you do see what I…]­ to predict something.

The Earth is a computer! -They are filling all the information into the computers, as if that is what they were born to do. Finally, the realization of what life is all about. The Earth brought forth all the creatures to work toward creating the human. Only he, could build something, like a slave, and still think himself in charge.

I still feel like an animal each time I have to pick up the soap. Especially when I feel that air freely traveling through the open bathroom, under the front, door. –Intruding.

Just wait untill they wake that sleeping giant. They do know that Earth’s crust is seventy-five per cent silicone. Knowing
ain’t knowing!

_Maybe the next time I happen to fall at the crosswalk again I won’t get up for a

while.………………………………………………………

.. ­Better get out._

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my black book / re helen [not of troy] 41 to 49 by 


i am AS i am (discovery than platform): I sculpt chisel my letters (runes?) ’sthough on stone, remembered when vanishes elrctricity; paper; canvass; memory

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