Diary of a Christmas Tree – Day 27 – Rachel Oost

Rachel- you asked for: 

“A Christmas tree who knows it’s his last day before being shoved in a box and left for a year.”

So here ya go!

When you’re stuck in a dark garage for 50 weeks a year you tend to question your existence more than most.

Years ago I was a display tree. I was set up for months in a large metropolitan department store. Families looked at me with wonder. I thought I was hot stuff and destined for great things.

With a few days before Christmas (my big day) I was sold to a dysfunctional middle class family at half price because of minor damages. In the car on the way home I spotted great leafy statues, I was just a mere imitation of these natural wonders. They were independent and grew where they wanted. I was contained in a plastic bag (the shop had lost my box) and made by a machine.

When I got home I was pampered for a few days. But soon enough I was shoved into the dark garage and ignored. I was very hurt and outraged. My existence seemed so pointless. I was just a collection of convenient green plastic bits to display each year in order to fit in with a tradition that is completely misinterpreted and now based on consumerism.

But this Christmas as I am being packed away, I’ve realised something. I still have my thoughts. This year I had developed entire philosophies in the dark, and even made friends with the broken toaster next to me. We’d argued about the intricacies of death and life for objects like us. Perhaps it wasn’t such a pointless existence after all.

Washing Directions – Day 26 – Cinnamon Eacott

Itchy Pants – from Cinnamon Eacott. 

Diary,

I propose new underpants washing directions:

Do not iron dry. Elastic will melt into brittle itchy spikes of doom. You will try to surreptitiously scratch yourself just before you go on stage for your speech. And only then will you realise that everyone can see backstage. This may cause colour change (blushing), shrinkage (of brain power on stage) and damages (to job prospects).

-Fran

Threshold – Day 25 – Christopher Murray

“With poems written down their bare backs in sharpies low on ink” from Christopher Murray.

They said he was mad. No-one went near the house. It was covered in writing; the walls, the path, the fence. Conservative villagers thought it was the devil speaking through him.

When I moved in, I wasn’t scared. He needed help, so I went to visit. I tried to read the path on the way in, but couldn’t make sense of it. Most of it was like another language.

Buzzing with anticipation, I knocked on the door. He’d probably be so happy to have a visitor.

As it turned out he was very happy to see me, and seemingly sane. We ate and chatted. The walls were covered in writing, the shelves full of journals and the tables cluttered with art. Not wanting to be rude I didn’t mention the writing.

I went back every day. He was lovely but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed help and sometimes I’d hear noises from upstairs.  Perhaps I could bring my psychologist friend over next time?

Eventually I worked up the courage to ask about the writing.

“My wife is agoraphobic,” he began. “She’d like to come down to see you but she’s too afraid.”

I looked upstairs and saw a face disappear.

“Because she can’t go outside, I started writing her a story. Dragons, tribes, distant lands, new languages…” he explained.

I thought back to the nonsensical words on the path.

“I started writing it on the walls for fun. She just finished reading the hallway before you came,” he added. “Then I had the idea to continue it outside. If she ever wants to finish the story, she’ll have to leave the house.”

I suddenly felt terrible for assuming he needed medication or assessments.

“Can I meet her?” I asked.

“I have an idea,” he said.

With dragon poetry written down my back in a sharpie low on ink, I stood at the front door. He had added me into the story. After some coaxing, his wife came down and continued reading. As she read my back she cleared the threshold. It was the first time she’d been outside in 8 years.

Like Normal – Day 24 – Georgia Wellington

ImageThis is my diary from around year 6-8. I was challenged the other day to find my entry from the first day of year 8 and write a story on that. So I thought I’d do a Haiku using only direct quotes & phrases. The following is my 13 year old thoughts on moving to high school.

Like waaay better

Boys and girls talk like it’s normal

We all just grow up

 

G-notes – Day 23 – Kaitlin Moncrieff

Kaitlin Moncrieff challenged me to find lyrics that my friend Georgia May wrote in my school organiser and write a story about that. But (surprisingly) there were none! So I found a note she wrote me in year 10 and developed something around that. 

20131220_181905

This was the first note to appear in my school organiser. I thought it odd for two reasons: 1. I don’t have any friends and 2. I don’t know any Georgia’s, G-unit’s or Pige’s. The popular girls told me there was a Georgia who died at the school years ago.

As the nice little notes continued to materialise over the next few weeks I became convinced I was being haunted.

Today, I found out it was a weird boy named George from my class last year who was too shy to come and talk to me. I immediately found him at lunch and called him a dickhead. Now we’re going to the movies

I am Freya, Freya I am – Day 22 – Rohan

Last night at a birthday drinks I was told “tomorrow you have to write a Dr. Seuss style poem about yourself!” by someone I’d basically just met.  My enthusiasm for the project was starting to wane, but it’s always rekindled by people shouting, tweeting, facebooking and carrier pigeon-ing me funny challenges. Okay I haven’t had the last one yet but I’d love to!

Anyway Rohan (don’t know your last name) here is your poem. As you wish! (Yes Princess Bride reference)

 

Who is this girl you may ask?

The idiot who set this ridiculous task.

Born 1991. Nicknamed ‘freya-tuck’ the fat roly-pole

But grew into more of a spindly, clumsy new born foal

As she got older she fended and friended her way through life

Got through school, jobs and uni without too much strife

 

She’s written, re-written, been smitten, bitten, likes to listen, had a kitten,

never been christened and has a crazy family from Britain.

 

She seems to be physically dyslexic and was shy at school

It’s amazing she has so many friends and doesn’t look more of a fool

She’s scared of confrontation, gated communities, drowning and spiders

She loves television, the smell of rain, funny laughs and trying new ciders

 

She wants to be a writer but she thinks she’s pretty rough

Maybe not good enough

She’s hoping this challenge will help her write better stuff

Perhaps she’ll even make a name as Freya Wright-Brough

And hopefully no-one will call her bluff