This morning I decided to record my voice reading my speech as a way of memorising it. Unfortunately it brought up one of my other insecurities… here’s a recording of me and my brain discussing it (not sure why my brain’s voice is so deep) . It was painful recording it and listening back…
Tank had a perfect body image. He was strong, armoured, well built and had a huge powerful turret. As he rolled along humans would stop and stare. He could even silence them by shooting from his turret. The human that drove him believed in reincarnation. Every time a bomb went off near by the human would mutter to himself that he would come back as a bird in a far off forest. Tank thought this was stupid, Tank liked being Tank. Tank didn’t want to be anywhere else. But one day, a bomb did hit Tank and Tank’s human. Minutes later Tank woke up a newborn human boy in sleepy town.
People called Tank a different name now, but Tank never forgot his old life. As he grew into a man, Tank decided nature was a terrible builder. Tank was small and soft to touch, even a bit of paper could pierce his armour. He had no turret, no way of silencing others, and no one stopped to stare at him in the street. He lashed out at people often, punching and kicking, but no-one praised him for it like they used to.
One day he walked into the forest, fed up with stupid soft ugly humans. A bird soared down and landed on his shoulder as he trudged through the mud. It rested there for a long time and twittering a pretty tune. The other animals watched fascinated by the pair, and suddenly Tank had an idea. His body didn’t matter anymore, he had found a new turret: his voice.
Tank is now a great poet who silences rooms with epic tales of battle.
A while ago Daniel told me to write a story about a Tank who turned into a human and missed his turret.
My throat and ear are incredibly sore today.
“You’ve got an ingrown speech,” the doctor said. “You’re so worried about sprouting a perfect speech that it’s grown inwards in fear. Its gnarled roots are scratching at your throat and trying find their way out your ears. I hope you can unfurl it in time.”
A while ago someone told me about a young boy with a bum part (short hair part in the middle). They’d seen him standing on a busy road with his mum yelling at him, and then watched him burst into loud sobs in front of the stand still traffic jam. I felt sorry for bum part, for there are acceptable crying places (your house, in your mum’s arms and when watching the last Harry Potter) and unacceptable crying places (work, busy roads and when watching the first Harry Potter). I was glad I’d never really had to do a public cry like this.
Until today. For the entire 241 day’s I have been writing, I have had tonsillitis on and off. I never fully recover and my immune system is pretty run down from it. Today I woke up feeling pretty crummy for what feels like the millionth time, so I headed off to the doctor. On the way I couldn’t stop thinking about how behind I am on study and how nervous I am about my TEDx talk, by the time I got in I was pretty fragile. I ended up just like bum part, crying at the doctor and then at the waiting room as I fled the scene… and then through the busy CBD streets as I tried to get home. It wasn’t pretty. So this story is dedicated to bum part- I understand man- sometimes everything is just too much.
Angular figures fill the streets, cinched and shaped by suits, heels, and belts. The Mess stands out like a politician at a rave. Her nose is a swamp, her eyes are clouds swollen with rain and her emotions seep from her skin leaving a trail behind her. The angular figures pretend not watch as the Mess passes them. The Mess knows they are watching, but it’s too late to stop. She rides it out and eventually the gushing worries slow to a trickle. She leaves them on street to rot. Tomorrow she’ll cinch herself back in and join the angular figures hopping nimbly over the mess.
Moles build the most intricate palaces and fight the fiercest battles. For living in the dark, damp earth means seeing isn’t necessary, but imagination is vital. Their minds light up the dark corridors with strange creatures, vibrant artwork and colours that don’t even exist outside their minds.
Inspired by a story my nanna told me today about the ordeal of the war, and her tiny, amazing History teacher who used to teach while they sat in the dark air-raid shelters.
Today we played a 3 hour game of articulate (it’s like pictionary but you have to describe the a word without using it). It was an ordeal of super intense looks and waving of hands in hopes it would make it clearer to your partner.
Missing each other
Mashing brains in frustration
Then they fuse, we’re one
Today I noticed there are adverts for the TEDx event everywhere. I am starting to panic. It’s just over a week away and I’m going to attempt to get the audience to write a story with me. But writing a short story with roughly 100 people or more isn’t going to be easy.
Most days it was difficult enough to pick from the hundreds of words jostling in her mind for a place on the page. Soon there would be hundreds of other people, with hundreds of new words in their heads, all racing to get on the same page. She imagined them flying at her like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. There was going to be a word frenzy, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to control them. Perhaps they would pick at her carcass or perhaps she’d trick them into laying flat on the paper.