Archive for February, 2014

Part II

“Dmitry was a broken, shriveled skeleton when he was brought home from Sudbury,” the old man said, hunching his shoulders and indicating something thin with his two leathery hands.
“Peter and I carried him from the wagon. He was never a big man, but now…”
He shook his head, stared momentarily out at the line of soughing pines. Shifting his position on the log bench, he looked down at his pipe, and then clamping it between his teeth he continued, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.
“When he came home he spoke little and would not talk of the accident.”
~
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Part I

Oleskiw’s name, and his pamphlet, were cursed no end in those first few years. Even after three decades, whenever things were hard on us or we were met with some catastrophe or other, Father never failed to exclaim “Bah! About Free Land! Curse the day I read it!”
~
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Part III

It was at Varlaam that Toy had the bright-spark moment. The wind whipped in and around our group-hug, snuffing ignition attempt after ignition attempt and Nik wasted a dozen matches trying to get the joint lit. Obscenities muttered all round.
Then Toy suddenly piped up.
“Why not break the end off one of those matches and stick it in the business end of that number and strike the bloody thing on the matchbox? That’ll light it, I’d say.”
Nik was immediately on the same wave length, nodding furiously. “Yeah! Yeah! Oh! Yes!”
Marijuana, sulphurous toxins and ill-gotten vodka became the staple for the next God-knows-how-long.
~
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Chibrituri Bucaresti

Part II

The story of the matches.
How we didn’t get caught I’ll never know. The focus of our hare-brained shoplifting sortie being food and liquor supplies, Chagas stood talking to the shopkeeper in the ex-State run grocery store.
“Aş… Ah… Dori nişte… Er… Tigara? Cigaretta? …Marlboro? Kent?”
Speaking the little Romanian he knew even more poorly than normal.
“Accepta… Ah… Dolari Americani?”
Buying cigarettes while we discreetly stuffed our pockets. And then a “diversionary tactic”. Or so we found out later. Meticulously planned and masterfully executed apparently.
~
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Четыре из нас!

Part I

Four of us. Each clad in a rag-tag mish-mash of threadbare and stained second-hand clothes. Other odd and mysterious items of abandoned apparel found along the road. In a banged out old Czech-made station wagon. Barreling along at the head of a roiling smoke cloud like a steam train. Have to yell to be heard above the racket of the motor when she’s doing anything more than about twenty miles an hour. Strong petrol and exhaust smell inside and it’s too icy to have the windows down.
~
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This song got me home on my jog through the hills of Cipaku this morning, my own personal film clip. It seemed to match my mood and the setting I was in quite well.
Hazy, smoky, grey and smoggy, jogging past where all of Cipaku’s rubbish is piled, set alight to send more clouds of toxic smoke into the air.
Past all the fancy new townhouses and mansions under construction up near Jalan Bukit Idaman.
It won’t be long until it’s transformed from a relatively pleasant place to exercise – vacant grassy lots and empty roads – to just another patch of suburbia, full of McMansions and hundreds of good little SUV-driving consumers. And I am doing nothing to help this situation.

Although, I don’t have an SUV…

Shani’s birth had an altogether more sobering influence on her mother, compared to the starry-eyed adulation her arrival had triggered in her dear Papa.
When she awoke from the anaesthesia, apart from feeling woozy and nauseous, and not altogether sure of her own whereabouts, Chahaya felt distinctly aware of some change in some part of her soul, or her being, her élan vital. She could not say exactly what, but something was missing. While she eventually came to the realisation that she had, quite literally, had a large part of her insides ripped out, for some time she could not explain the void she now felt within.
She was in hospital. Though not much else was, this much was clear. Doctors and nurses and orderlies and her beaming husband and a screaming baby all flashed past. Nurses and doctors and the screaming baby and nurses and then her worried husband, caught in a weird time dilation, and after what seemed to her like only a brief moment, a matter of minutes, she was suddenly being wheeled out to Yama’s Hillman.
~

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Yama Surya had, at the age of eighteen, followed his parent’s wishes and “come to U.K.”
Once there, he quickly began his quest of becoming a self-made man, driving through the streets of West London in a Glenalmond-green Hillman Husky, selling vacuum cleaners on commission door-to-door for Ravensdale’s Electrical Goods.
But he wasn’t just going to be some simple box wallah. He had grand plans, a good reference from Mr. Ravensdale himself and the beginnings of a deposit for, someday, his very own shop. The beginnings of an empire that would be built on machines used to suck up the dust of another, older Empire. But that was later, down the track. Plenty of people yet to walk through their homes with their dirty feet.
~

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I only have vague memories of the Challenger disaster. I have very clear memories of being haunted by it though.
This track, along with the archival footage – watching the final moments of the seven astronauts – gives me serious goosebumps. I find it both disturbingly morbid and fascinatingly beautiful all at the same time.

It would appear Seekae are fond of disturbingly morbid film clips though. If you dare, watch this.