Top down lights off beauty aloft skirt tight lips glossed shades on flouting as if the sun were shining oh, it really is
My love How can my love be true While I am not true to myself
I reluctantly accept myself Crotchety father reluctantly embracing gay son swallowing private tears farewell society and cherished hopes for this
Without, the old storm dooms Within, the wee soul blooms
Foom! Pine needles thrash me with its limb of snow Foom! Again Foom! and I look up from my jogging, from eyes down against the drifting flakes The elegantly dressed forest standing still — a white stag — blinks at me content to be finally seen
I’d take a fall for snow
Truth on paper what a mess Me, Othello, longing black and white in real life I'm colored
I have a small part in a movie “Doing Australia”.
The film has these inane catch-phrases shared as an inside joke ending in “Doing Australia” or just, in non-sequitur, “Australia”.
Main Character: The car was going so fast it was doing Australia.
We are decorating my house. It’s not my house; it’s my character’s house.
It’s not a house; it’s a room. It’s part of the movie set in an office building.
I walk around the room with the well-dressed lady interior decorator. I suggest a few alterations.
She deftly explains the reasoning behind the design; at once I am educated and, without qualm, abandon my earlier line of thinking.
I comment on this, admiring for the skillful tact she must have to constantly employ to surmount the power plays by famous actors and respected directors. She gives a knowing assent.
I’m happy to have a part in a movie. Then, I pause and sadly consider I have separated myself from so many others, I now have no one close to celebrate this good happening with.
As we casually exit my house — the room, rather — some forlorn actors begin to gather their things to leave. They are leaving for good, out of a job. Perhaps they are leaving their profession. Boohoo.
I lightly join some fellow actors in nearby room. We gather to gab. Ah, here’s the famous co-star now.
“Would you like to ???? Australia?” he jovially asks.
I return with a surprised, unknowing gesture.
He adds, “Night, eh?” as if to make it clear.
My prolonged reluctance to accept the jest unnerves him and he goes off in a huff.
I’m mad. I stew, then I pound my fist into the chair over and over.
“It’s good to express my anger,” I think. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spy the director observing me.
“Perhaps I have acted well and have pleased the director,” I wonder to myself.