4. any obvious subjectivity or personality in my writing style.
Here goes.
My father – that sleazy, two-timing, pathetic bag of shit – dumped my mother and me when I was in Year 6. Having the sensitivity of a haemorrhoid, and being of an age when his shrivelled excuse for an ego was at its most vulnerable, he spent his evenings drooling over the cleavage of a twenty-year-old barmaid in the local pub. This woman, and I use the word in its loosest possible sense, already suffered from repetitive strain injury through the frequency with which she removed her underwear. My father, led by his groin [marginally larger than his brain], suggested they destroy the lives of two innocent people by running off to Sydney together where she could paint her nails and indulge a passion for skimpy lycra outfits and he could comb his hair to hide his bald patch. Five years passed before my father, unable to survive without inflicting pain and misery on another human being, returned to the tropics and attempted to make contact with those he had abandoned. This vile, putrescent sore on the anus of society had not contacted us in five years and now he oozed back in search of forgiveness, hot meals and airconditioning – not necessarily in that order.
Okay. They’re the facts. Now you can form your own judgement.
Four
I had a poem to write for Part 1 English Studies.
Listen, do you want to know the poetry secret? Most kids have to write poems for English, nearly all hate it and even more are crap at doing it. But it is so easy. I swear. When I tell you, you’ll curl a lip and sneer. ‘It can’t be that easy,’ you’ll say. But it is, and it works every time.
So, do you want to know the ‘Calma Harrison foolproof guide to poetry writing on any conceivable subject in fewer than two minutes’? It will change your life. Never again will you dread that assignment. I guarantee you’ll pass and, if my experience is anything to go by, you’ll probably get an A. No skill or brainwork required. In fact, skill and brains are a disadvantage.
Okay, here goes.
Let’s get rid of some misconceptions. Misconception number one: poetry has to rhyme. Wrong. Rhyming poetry is actually very old-fashioned [as well as a pain in the arse to write] and we are modern, up-to-date wordsmiths here. Misconception number two: rhythm is important. Wrong, wrong. Modern poetry relies upon the rhythm of the street, the natural cadences of the spoken language [memorise that and repeat it to any teacher who challenges you]. Misconception number three: poetry has to make sense. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Let’s be honest. How many proper poems have you read where you’ve known what the hell was going on? Few, if any, I’ll bet. And the same applies to your teacher. He or she will read your poem and nod wisely. They can’t admit they don’t understand it. They’re English teachers, after all. In the unlikely event they ask you to explain, recite the following: ‘It was my attempt to rationalise the dichotomy between personal emotions and the pressures of modern-day living.’ That’ll shut them up.
Okay. We don’t need rhyme, rhythm or meaning. The key is that it should look like a poem.
Let me give you an example. Take any old drivel you can think up in twenty seconds:
The wind leant sideways in the town and the boy threw up as I felt excitement pouring down the rain-swept streets.
Gibberish? You got it! Now watch as I turn it into a masterpiece of poetic inspiration:
the wind
leant
s
i
d
e
ways in the town
and the boy threw
p
u
as i felt excitement pouring down the rain-swept streets
See? It’s still crap, but no one knows it’s crap. Mucking around with spacing, the shape of lines and punctuation has made it poetry in motion.
Too bloody easy.
Calma, you’re a legend.
Five
Dear Fridge,
I don’t know how to break this gently . . .
You might remember that twenty years ago, when you were young, inexperienced and suffering from the bad taste that characterised the early eighties, you fell under the noxious spell of a serial loser called Robert. Instead of spurning him, as one would a rabid dog, you lost the plot to such an extent that you muttered ‘I do’ in front of appalled witnesses at a registry office. I, personally, am inclined to attribute this to temporary insanity produced by excessive substance abuse [rampant at the time], though I don’t insist upon this. It may not have escaped your memory, either, that some four years later there was issue from this union in the shape of yours truly. I still hold out hope that this was the consequence of artificial insemination from an anonymous donor. Be that as it may, the putrid excrescence known as your ex-husband was not a nightmarish projection of fevered imaginations, but has a tangible existence.
He is back, Fridge. He turned up this morning like a bad smell, though I attempted to waft him away. We need to arrange new identities, false passports and visas for the Galápagos Islands. Give me the word and I’ll withdraw the forty-eight dollars from my savings account.
Sorrowfully, your loving daughter,
Calma
Dear Calma,
Bob’s been back a week. Didn’t tell you because I knew how you’d react. Wasn’t expecting he’d turn up at the house. Sorry. Should have told you.
Put the Galápagos trip on hold and don’t withdraw your money. I’d hate to create a crisis in the Australian economy.
Love,
The Fridge
Six
‘Calma, could you do me a favour?’
Miss Moss was the best English teacher I’d ever had. She was a new appointment at my school, replacing Miss Payne who’d left under a cloud. And a police escort. I still couldn’t understand how Miss Moss had got the job. She was articulate, intelligent, excellent at English, enthusiastic about communicating her skills and conscientious to a fault. My school wouldn’t normally touch someone with such impeccable credentials. We specialised in the ageing and incompetent. The interview panel had obviously made a big mistake, but I wasn’t complaining.
‘Of course, Miss.’
Miss Moss carefully opened the large case on her desk. We were minutes into our first lesson of the new week. It was a pleasure to be in class, not just because of the quality teaching, but also because I was with fifteen other students who were keen to learn. We sat in respectful silence while Miss Moss removed a large saxophone from the case and walked over to my desk.
‘Could you play us a tune, Calma?’ she said, thrusting the gleaming instrument under my nose. I laughed.
‘Sorry, Miss,’ I said. ‘I can’t play sax.’
‘Oh, go on,’ she said. ‘Any tune you like. Make something up.’
I took the saxophone from her, only because she wasn’t giving me an option. It was lovely and slightly warm to the touch. There was a bewildering array of valves and stops, burnished to a golden glow. I could imagine it had a beautiful tone. But that was academic. I had more chance getting a tune out of an electric toaster.
‘I can’t play, Miss.’
‘Please. Just a short melody.’
Now I liked Miss Moss, but the part of my brain responsible for intellectual irritation was receiving serious stimulation. I mean, I couldn’t have been much clearer. Maybe she had me confused with someone from the school orchestra – it was a charitable thought and I had tried to point out her mistake. But this was getting silly. It was time for plain speaking.
‘Miss,’ I said. ‘You don’t understand. I can’t play saxophone. It’s not a question of not wanting to. I can’t – meaning I do not have the skill, the ability, the expertise, the know-how, the technique, the requisite musical knowledge, the capacity, the facility, the knack, the gift or the talent. I can’t get a tune out of a jukebox, let alone this.’ I smiled sweetly. ‘I hope I’ve made myself clear.’
Miss Moss had returned to her desk and was searching through a drawer. She pulled something out, looked at me a moment, and t
hen held up a sheet of paper.
‘So how do you explain this, Calma? Your “poem”.’ I swear I could hear the speech marks in her voice. ‘What a sad, pathetic thing you must think the English language is if you can pretend that what you have written here is anything other than cacophonous drivel. I asked you to make music out of words. You didn’t. And you are quite right about the saxophone. No one would expect someone without talent to make music from it. But you are talented at English, Calma. You can make words sing. You have the capacity, the skill, the gift and the talent. Which makes this,’ she waved the sheet again as if trying to shake it to death, ‘all the more deplorable. If you want to desecrate your abilities, then fine. It’s your choice. But don’t expect me to be pleased or to collude with you in it. “’Sblood. Do you think I am easier to play on than a pipe?”’
I could feel my face flush. I fixed my eyes on the desk.
‘Trivia question, class. From which play did that quote come? Answers to me at the beginning of next lesson. First correct to receive a completely pathetic prize.’
The class laughed.
‘Right. Last week we considered the unreliable narrator. Let us continue. Please turn to the first page of Jane Austen’s Emma . . .’
I cradled the saxophone on my knees for the rest of the lesson. When the bell went I waited until everyone had gone. I placed it back in its case. Miss Moss was wiping the whiteboard. ‘
That was unfair,’ I said. ‘Why did you humiliate me?’
Miss Moss turned.
‘You humiliated yourself, Calma,’ she said. ‘I was teaching you.’
We stared at each other for a while. Tears pricked my eyes. Next lesson was a free and I needed to think. I was nearly out the door when Miss Moss called my name.
‘The quote, Calma?’ she said.
‘Hamlet,’ I said, ‘to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.’
Miss Moss waited until I forced myself to meet her eyes. She smiled.
Chapter 2
Getting to know your narrator
Hi! Here at Hot Goss we pride ourselves on keeping you up-to-date with your fave celebs. Who’s in; who’s out; who’s halfway in; who was in, but has just popped out for five minutes; who’s out, but thinks they’re in; and who’s inside out and upside down. This week we have an EXCLUSIVE interview with the hottest property in town – our own home-grown Aussie chick who’s taking Tinseltown by storm: Calma Harrison.
HG: Hi, Calma. Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to talk to us.
CH: Always a pleasure.
HG: Your career is the stuff of legend, Calma. How have you managed to achieve so much at just sixteen years of age?
CH: Well, clean living plays a part. I exercise regularly, eat good, nutritious food and always get eight hours of sleep a night. But mostly it’s because I am enormously talented.
HG: Yes, indeed you are. Speaking of exercise, you won the Wimbledon Women’s Final, 6–0, 6–0. Was that the highlight of your sporting year?
CH: No. Winning the US Golf Open by fifteen shots was my crowning achievement.
HG: Time magazine recently named you the most beautiful woman in the world. Would you care to comment?
CH: Well, it’s silly, isn’t it? I mean, look at me. I’m 180 centimetres tall, 61 kilograms, brown eyes, flawless complexion, silky chestnut hair and a bust that on occasions is in a different time zone to the rest of me. It’s absurd to say I am the most beautiful woman in the world. There must be, at least, two who are more beautiful.
HG: I don’t think so.
CH: No, I don’t think so either.
HG: What about your upbringing, your home life? Can you tell us about the real Calma Harrison?
CH: I live in northern Australia. In fact, I attend a high school there and am currently in Year 11. English is my favourite subject.
HG: Which brings us neatly to your latest novel. Is there any truth in the rumour you are a shoo-in for the Nobel Prize for Literature this year?
CH: I can’t possibly comment. Let’s just say I have a plane ticket for Stockholm, I love pickled herring and my ski gear is packed.
HG: As the reigning Winter Olympic champion in the Grand Slalom, you must be looking forward to getting on the piste again. But back to your home life. Is it true your father deserted you when you were in Year 6?
CH: That is true. But there is always something positive to take from life’s little tragedies.
HG: You are referring to your latest album, I Turned Over a Stone and My Father Crawled Out, which recently went platinum in the US?
CH: Yes.
HG: Why do you call your mother ‘The Fridge’?
CH: Since my father left, she has worked constantly because she has an irrational fear of claiming benefits to which she is entitled. She prefers to work herself into a stupor to provide for us. As a result she is rarely at home and we communicate mainly through notes on the fridge, hence my reference to her in those terms. I see more of the fridge than I do of my mother. But all this is very personal and I’d sooner not go into it.
HG: Did you draw on this experience for your Academy Award winning role in The Fridge and Me, written by you, directed by Spielberg and also starring Robert de Niro and Orlando Bloom?
CH: Partly.
HG: Are you surprised that your habit of wearing large, coloured glasses has become something of an international fashion statement?
CH: I confess I was flattered when the Queen started imitating me – though putting them on the corgis was excessive. But yes, it amuses me to see them on the Australian Prime Minister.
HG: Tell us, Calma. What’s going on with your love life? Is there a hottie on the scene and should we read anything into the pouting jealous rages of a certain Hollywood star whenever you are at a function together?
CH: The tabloids have blown that out of all proportion. For the record, her husband and I are just good friends. But yes, there is romance in the air. I can’t say anything yet, but the name Jason is one to listen for.
HG: You heard it in Hot Goss first. Calma, we know you have groundbreaking work to do on a cure for cancer, and you are scheduled to deliver a keynote address to the General Assembly of the United Nations first thing in the morning. Thanks so much for talking to us.
CH: My pleasure.
Chapter 3
Pressures on the Fridge
It was time to get a job.
I had come to this decision for a number of good reasons. I was of an age where I should be contributing to the family budget, thus taking pressure off the Fridge. Of course, a little extra personal spending money wouldn’t go amiss either. Where my classmates were showing off their latest mobile phones, with still-image manipulators, video capture cards, wireless internet and espresso-making facilities, I couldn’t afford two baked bean cans connected by garden twine.
It was a tad embarrassing.
The most compelling reason, however, was that I needed exposure to real life. As a senior student I was living in an ivory tower. I went to classes, I came home and read or watched TV. If I was going to be a writer – my chosen career path and current burning ambition – then I needed to connect with ordinary people, understand their motivations, lifestyles and patterns of speech. I’d read that proper writers carry a notebook in which they record snippets of conversation that might be of use in their writing. I liked that idea.
So, a job. No time like the present. I showered and washed my hair twice before styling it for an hour, so it looked natural. I applied cleanser, toner, reinvigorating face mask, de-wrinkler, energising lotion with hydroxy beta protein plus supplementing minerals and a few other things in bottles I stole from Mum’s collection. Then I started on make-up. The pimples on my nose weren’t angry anymore; they were beside themselves with rage. So I applied a masking compound, not unlike the stuff you use to seal shower doors, but skin-toned. It wasn’t bad, either. When I’d finished, you couldn’t really see the pimples, though there were still bumps, like molehills, alo
ng my nose. Short of taking an orbital sander to them, there wasn’t much more I could do. I tried to finish the rest of my make-up, but frankly it’s an art form I’ve yet to master. After much screwing up of the eyes and facial contortions, I managed to end up looking relatively normal. A considerable improvement on my usual efforts where I wouldn’t be out of place in a Picasso painting. I turned to the wardrobe.
Something elegant, yet businesslike. Something that would say ‘serious job-seeker’, yet at the same time reflect my personality. Two hours later I had tried every possible combination of shirts, blouses, skirts, trousers, T-shirts, tops, dresses and sundry clothing items that did not fit readily into any category. It was like a small detonation had occurred in my wardrobe, scattering everything over the entire bedroom. Finally, I settled on a crisp, white blouse and a stylish knee-length blue skirt. Now. Shoes . . .
A mere five hours after I had started I was ready to take on the world of employment. Donning green plastic-framed glasses, I stepped into the blazing heat of a wet-season afternoon. Now, where could I find a casual job?
It struck me with the force of revelation. Why not the local Crazi-Cheep? After all, it was . . . local. And I didn’t really have any specific skills. It wasn’t as if I was passionately into kittens, frill-necked lizards or shovelling horse crap at the local stables and felt that a pet store would be the only place worthy of my talents. I could scan stuff. I mean, I had seen the staff at Crazi-Cheep. Most wouldn’t be able to find their own backsides in a dark room if you put a bell on them and provided flashlights. Just how difficult could it be? And it was . . . local. It was perfect. In fact, I decided it was so perfect I wouldn’t consider employment anywhere else. I headed purposefully in its direction.
The customer service desk was attended by a girl fresh out of preschool. She chewed gum and studiously ignored me. This was difficult since my glasses by themselves would have stopped a Boeing 747 in flight. Plus, I was the only customer, though I did note, out of the corner of my eye, a lone checkout operator and forty pensioners stretching into the feminine hygiene and car accessory aisle. I stood, a patient smile on my face while the customer service clerk continued chewing and gazing blankly into the middle distance.
It's Not All About YOU, Calma! Page 2
