freyawrightbrough

I spent most of today doing a huge assignment but I did manage to think of this in the hairdresser just then. Unfortunately I was feeling shy today so there is no photo.

Snippets Barber has never had to sweep up hair, instead they let it compound until it became sentient. Now the hair is cleaned up by small furry beings.

Written at the sushi train during lunch. Then sent on its own train journey as I quickly left the restaurant. Maybe someone will pick it up?

Little pieces of tender meat are carried by the train. Round and round they go, judged on looks alone. Thousands of nervous thoughts try to spill from their bodies like grains of sand. Their skin is delicate like thin sheets of seaweed. Looking out from its transparent cage, one waits for its chance. It does not want to go the way its friends will. As the plastic cloche is lifted and hungry eyes peer in, it rolls out onto the tracks. Feeling the wind ruffle its pickled ginger, it is free at last. It knows the feeling won’t endure, but this moment is all it needs.

A carpet of clothes tell the story of her indecisive nature, the walls are an evolution of her artistic taste and old letters from loved ones jump out of open drawers. The room is a museum she does not wish to exhibit. Like a dragon showing its underbelly, she opens the door. The intruder sits down, immediately at home. Feeling no wounds to her vulnerable tum, she collects precious artifacts, suddenly compelled to give them the a guided tour of her life.

Of all the places I have written over the past 137 days; India, Woodford, Ikea and even from the top of a waterfall, I have never written a story in my room. I decided this was odd and decided to rectify this with the story above. Below is a picture- mess included.

Another day of full on study. The only ‘place’ I’ve gone to today is the grocery store.

You check out my groceries

I check out your assets

But eyes burn into me

I check behind me

The check out boy is staring

His gaze on my behind

Then a wink

“Are you checking out another girl?” he asks

“What?”

“Shame, I thought we could go on a date”

“Ah, think I’ll have to raincheck on that”

I look back sheepish

“Check or Savings?” you ask, snickering

Caught up with some friends at the Bearded Lady today- I wrote my story there and Chloe suggested I write my story on their hands. It’s a little hard to read so I have a translation underneath.

She was a freak

She shut herself in a tower

And let her beard grow long

One day a fair maiden climbed it

Now they run a fine weavery

From the river.

The tide breathes

In and out

In and out

In

And

Out

Far out

This time it exhales every last toxin

Its breath carries across the city

Seeping into the suburbs

But in the end it can’t hold on

It takes a deep rattling breath

And the cycle continues

In and out

In and out

Tonight I come to you from the house with the cool fence that I wrote about all those months ago. It turns out the fence is just the start- the entire house is amazing! It is now an art gallery for the amazing Bonnie – check out her work- just do it: https://www.facebook.com/Bonaluga

Bonaluga House nestles in plain sight. It draws only the people it wants and is invisible to those who wouldn’t appreciate it. The rooms are lush forests. Outside, the garden is cozy and dry. Music floats through the floorboards and undiscovered creatures stare, eyes glinting, from the corners. Most imagine such a place is only fantasy, but those who’ve been there aren’t stupid, they know fantasy is real.

On my way to work there is a field with horses in it. I’ve stopped to write this morning. 

@Longface Lol just saw owner stack it in mud.

@Horsinaround Poor thing, he only has 2 legs.

@Longface He thought laughter was shivers and put that ugly jumper on me.

@Horsinaround That’s Karma #paddockbuddhism #horsetaohorse should change my name to #horsezenaround

Elizabeth gave me a place challenge for this month ‘somewhere you can get a birds eye view.’ I was thinking about high places in Brisbane as I sat on the grass today, when I realised I had a birds eye view of something right where I was. An entire world of ants were crawling around right underneath my nose and I could see everything right from where I was. 

NEW OPPORTUNITY FOR HILL RESIDENTS

A much needed chocolate wrapper landed yesterday. The colossal site has provided hundreds of jobs for local sugar miners and economants are saying it will give a much needed boost to the hill economy. Investor and Queen Ant, Candice Newsome, commented this morning claiming, “Packet Mining is the future for Hill, if we continue to fund these projects and take advantage of wrappers we might become as strong our neighbouring Bin Colony.” 

But not everyone is happy with this explanation.The colony’s Envirantmentalist Group have slammed her, releasing a statement that called the wrapper site “a quick fix” for an ongoing problem. “Our Larva are starving because we have forgotten how to live off the land, depending on wrappers is unsustainable and unhealthy,” the statement concluded. 

Whilst wrapper mining law remains controversial, one thing is for sure, many hungry Larva will be fed tonight.

Last year I wrote a computer game with some game design students. One of whom was the charming Callum Grier, who contacted me the other day and suggested a place -a virtual place- the land of ‘flappy bird’. 

So I began playing… what wonders did the land of flappy bird have in store for me? Well monotony and frustration it turns out. I couldn’t get past 7 points. 

Relentlessly flapping underdeveloped wings for eternity

It dies over and over, always to be reborn into the same absurdity

Unable to give up the flight

Despite there being no end in sight

Just because a simple phrase caused it’s designer frustration

“the journey is more important than the destination”

It’s 9pm and I’m listening to jazz/rap by the wonderful ‘Rivermouth’ under a house at ‘Downstairs Conspiracy’ in West End where I met Bonnie. She is a wonderful artist and the stranger who received my random story in the post a few months ago. It turns out she makes amazing patchwork dolls such as these:

I thought it looked a little like a mermaid, it was very intricate. I asked her how long this one took her and she said she started it when she was pregnant ad it grew with her. I thought that was beautiful, so I sat down and listened to some Rivermouth whilst I wrote this:

Mermaids aren’t known for their music, but this mermaid learnt from the experts, the whales. She started with a beat, like the tiny heart forming inside her. Every day she added something new. A melody grew like the small limbs. A trill kicked like the petite feet.  A baseline swelled like the bond of blood. And when her daughter was born the song was complete, written with the newest lyrics that only a cry can articulate. 

I’m at the powerhouse exhibition called “Seventh with Another” and there is an artwork here by Hailey Bartholomew (director / photographer) + Erin Lightfoot (textile designer) where they invite you to tell them a memory from when you were seven. So here is mine (with pictures)!

My brother and I did everything together at that time. We ate pancakes hot off the stove, ripping them up as they were cooked; half for me, half for him.

In summer we’d have water fights and when we got tired, we’d go inside and play tug of war. I remember he was so strong I’d be dragged across the polished wood floors on my belly

It wasn’t till I was older that I realised he wasn’t like other brothers. He aged much faster than me and now he is gone. But he will always remain my brother, protective, loyal and playful.

I just got back from a mountain where I did a bush walk. The aim of the walk is to end up at a waterfall, but when you finally arrive, there is a huge wooden barrier. We climbed the barrier and stumbled over the rocks looking for perfect sitting spots to admire the falls. I found a spot right on the edge of the drop and wrote this. 

We live atop a waterfall. No one knows what’s at the bottom. Folk have got lost down there and never come back. We’re told not to venture down.

But I’ve always wondered. So I send notes down there. Scratched in bark, I watch them teeter on the edge before plunging into froth. After a few years I stopped sending them. I had to assume it was just as people said. I vowed never to venture.

Until I looked up one morning and saw a note just like mine, dangling from a pulley system made of vines. It was the folk who ventured. They were not lost or dead. They’d found friends, caves and new animals.

I couldn’t convince the others. I am lost to my people now, but I have a new family and I can wonder as far as I like. 

I am currently sitting in on a circus class as my location for today. It’s been hard to concentrate on writing because the class itself is so entertaining to watch, but I’ve managed to get down this story:

As far as Nina was concerned she had lost her daughter the day Gen joined the circus. Gen had gotten perfect grades all through school and was headed to University, but had thrown it all away just to hang upside-down like a bat.

To add insult to injury, every few months she would receive posters of Gen hanging from hoops in skimpy outfits. Nina would hide them away in drawers and try to forget them, but they would permeate her dreams.

One night she fell asleep to the sound of the pounding rain. When Nina next opened her eyes she was convinced she was having one of her nightmares. She could hear what sounded like a waterfall outside and she was being carried by a small sparkly creature.

“Alright mum?”

The creature was Gen. This must be a dream, Nina thought, as she was carried out onto the back deck and passed to a man in drag.

“We had a show nearby, we came as soon as we heard,” Gen was saying.

“Ready Nina?” the man asked as he dropped her onto a soft mat.

She hit the mat with a loud wet thud, this was no dream. She could see water gushing round the front of the house and neighbours rushing to load their cars.

The clean up that followed was incredibly fast. They erected a big top in the street and cooked meals for everyone. Nina redecorated that summer and Gen’s posters now paper the walls. 

For April I am writing my story in a different place everyday. Today I went to IKEA.

I decided to write my piece on some IKEA art which amused me. (Hovag was the name of one of the bits of furniture that I liked)

The Hovag (commonly called the hipster antelope) is a rare species. Unlike the traditional antelope, Hovags are much smaller and more antisocial, usually living alone or in small groups called ‘subcultures’. They can be found amongst Swedish furniture, usually making their burrows from cardboard, alan keys and small pencils. Hovags are incredibly vulnerable animals and always choose flight over fight, which is why many are often spotted riding small bikes so as to escape their predators. Although populations are on the rise as their habitats are conserved and expanded by consumers, it is still illegal to hunt or catch a Hovag. However, it is said that the Hovag milk is exquisite and organic farmers who have permits to collect the milk report it has a “coffee like quality”.

 *Bonus pic!*

Found a story in the toy puppy display. It’s like a comic strip. Top panel: puppies tell secrets. Bottom panel: puppies are suddenly frightened. I’m wondering what they’ve just discovered?

Went into 612 ABC radio station today to celebrate being over a third of the way through the challenge (listen here).

I asked the lovely Tim Cox for an idea and he gave me “The shinny red double decker bus.” This month I’m going to write in different places and use them as my inspiration, so after the interview I went straight to the bus stop and wrote this:

Looking longingly at the new slimline buses, the double decker chugs through the streets roaring and spluttering fumes. Its towering frame chaotically navigates the city streets, squeezing under overpasses and round tight corners.

Convinced it will soon be forgotten, it shudders to a stop in the underground fume box that is the city station. Its reflection stares back from the glass barrier. Drawn on the steamy window is a smiley face.

The double decker looks out at the sea of people getting off at the station wondering who had drawn the face. Perhaps they wouldn’t forget.

Also today I got my first hater. They think I’m “dead boring” and I need to “get a real job.” I can’t pretend it didn’t hurt but on the whole I’m quite excited to have one- It’s like I’ve been christened by the internet – I feel like a real blogger/artist now!  

It’s the last day of Mentor March and I am incredibly excited to write about my last mentor… Gemma Seltzer.

I was told about London based author, Gemma Seltzer, last year when the idea of this project was just a vague dream. She had started out writing a story every day for 100 days based on interactions with strangers and posted it to a blog (speaktostrangers.co.uk/). It was so successful she has often asked to re-create it in different cities and even written for the TATE Modern. She was young and she had started out with just a self run blog… something clicked in my brain and I decided then and there that my vague dream would become a concrete reality. The idea that had always seemed overwhelming and distant suddenly seemed like a real option. 

So last week I decided to email her and ask her for advice and a prompt. And on the weekend I got a beautiful reply…

“I’m so pleased you found something in my work that inspired you too – that’s made my day,” it began. “From a browse of your site, I can see you have loads of energy and a great range in your writing. What a lovely project, because it’s about real life and people as much as it’s about good writing.” 

I was so chuffed! She also told me to write in different places around Brisbane- explore every aspect of it. I think this is a really great idea and I will be using it as my theme for next month (April).

Lastly she gave me a challenge “Write your story on a piece of paper, fold it into an plane and let it go in a crowd.”

So I wrote a story and folded it up…

It mustered its courage and leapt into a gust of wind, hoping to ride it smoothly to its destination. Alas it was only a few turbulent seconds before its bleached pulpy wings gave out and it took a nose dive toward the pavement below.

With only discarded chewing gum for company, it lay crumpled on the ground. But then a hand smoothed its wings and launched it into the air once more. This time it flew for a good while, and when it faltered another hand caught it. Its journey continued on like this until it wasn’t sure which way it was going, or if it was even facing the right direction.  

When it finally came to rest, it looked around, disorientated. Then, a face slid into focus, and it realised it had found its destination. The inky cargo was delivered in perfect reading condition.

I’ve been studying in the library all day so I’m basing my story off the only mentor I’ve had today… Richard Grusin- the author of my reading (“What is an Electronic Author? Theory and the Technological Fallacy”) I’ve taken the words “Electronic Author” on behalf of Grusin and set them as my prompt words. 

Constantly awake

Pounding the keyboard

Recording every millisecond of consciousness

Noting every lonely question  

Extracting thoughts

Spinning them into intricate webs

Filling them away

The electronic author of our story