Author: juliette gillies

Writer.

Bronte

     A little piece of my heart will always belong to Bronte. My cousins lived next door to the cemetery and when we were kids we would sneak in and scare each other. When I was a little girl my Mum would take me to the safe shallows of the rock pool at Bronte Beach where I would bounce around in a green bikini and a pink sunhat.

     My Grandpa grew up in the Eastern Suburbs and would tell us stories from when he was a teenager. How he and his friends took command of the sand dunes from some older boys with only their determination and an air rifle. When he passed away a few years ago we placed a headstone for him in Waverley Cemetery. The first time I went to visit I stopped by the beach and packed some sand into a little glass jar. I buried it at the front of the headstone so that he could be closer to the beach he loved. It was the smallest of gestures but it meant a lot to me. I was at the hospital when he died. I saw him after he had taken his final breath and his body looked empty. It was like his spirit had been set free, back into the universe to be reincarnated or just add to the positive life force of the world. Whenever I visit Bronte I feel closer to him, which is both a blessing and a little bittersweet. I don’t know what it is exactly but the road down MacPherson Street, the cemetery and the beach feel like a hug. Like big, open arms welcoming me home.

     I spent a really nice day there recently. Hubs and I made our way along Anzac Parade and past the massive expanse of Centennial Park. We parked and had lunch at Three Blue Ducks. We window shopped and watched some cheeky birds steal grapes from a grocer’s fruit stand. We bought Iggy’s bread and even though we were already full we managed to chomp down two sourdough rolls (best bread ever). We walked through the cemetery taking photos, visited the grave of Henry Lawson, and my Grandpa’s headstone. I don’t know if you have been to Waverley Cemetery but it is a beautiful cemetery that sits on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Hubs and I sat down to chat for a moment and just happened to turn our heads at just the right moment to see a whale breach the water. It was surreal to be sitting amongst the graves and headstones, watching whales play in the sea.

     I still think about my Grandpa quite often. We had an unspoken fondness for each other. We shared a love of photography and music. He loved to sing and I’ll never listen to an ABBA song (or Rolf Harris for that matter) and not think of him. I remember the stories he would tell about when he worked for the picture theatre. And how he would offer us kids rather dubious looking old Minties from the car glove box as a treat. He used to sometimes wear a yellow skivvy and my Grandmother would yell at him when he came to the dining table in a singlet. He was an electronics man with a workshop and every kind of tool imaginable (though often broken or second hand). He let us kids use his pool table and his ping pong table. He loved birds and going for long walks. He had two heart bypasses and after the second he got very into Tai Chi.

     He was at my 21st but died before my wedding and I’ll always wish he could have seen me get married. I think he liked my now husband very much and even gave him one of his old (broken) ukuleles. He would have adored our little dog and been fascinated with DSLR cameras. I think he would have probably joined Facebook.

     The second last time I saw him I knew it was getting near the end and I said something to him I had never said but had always felt. It wasn’t until for a brief lucid moment when he looked me in the eye and replied, “I love you too” that I realised that we had never needed to say it. We had both always just known. I think that even if I never achieve anything significant in my life that he would of been proud of me anyway. I think he would have been proud of all his family.

grandpa     Grandpa and me, 1980

Quiet Riot

Home Tiger
Back to the cage
Away from life
Sunlight, sleep
So carefree
And full of rum
Back to the chains
The whip and
The noose
To confinement
Resentment
Sit, sit, sit
Five days to choke
On stale recycled air
Dead air, dead stares
And chests that heave
And wait, wait
Sit!
Squirmy, impatient
Little Tiger
In another five days
You will be free.

Tender

Tender is a short film written and directed by Australian filmmaker Jessica Redenbach. I had the good fortune to catch it one night on SBS Shorts on Screen. It is the story of Max and Cate. They meet, forget to exchange names, they fuck. After what could easily be dismissed as a one night stand they meet again. They chat. Max is an artist. Cate is funny and charming. They fuck. There is no restraint. It’s just sex and Cate appears to be in control. Then something changes. Cate’s bravado begins to waiver. Somewhere in amongst the casual sex, fun conversations and laughter a need for intimacy invades Cate. She begins to appear clingy. Her repeated phone calls a little desperate. Her daily life seems like a robotic forced distraction from her thoughts of Max. As Cate falls in love, Max remains distant until the final moments of the film when things become too familiar. The fantasy is replaced with harsh reality and Cate is left despondent.

This is such a subtle, delicate film. I was blown away by the performances and progression of the story. I had never seen Angus Sampson in a dramatic role before but he is perfectly cast as Max, a fairly uncomplicated, happy go lucky guy. Katie-Jean Harding brings something very special to the seemingly carefree Cate. Her descent into disconsolateness could easily be dismissed as the actions of a wild and naive woman but instead her forlornness cuts through you like a knife. Her eyes, once so alive and playful, are now sad and clouded with an unsatisfied longing. You want her to receive the love she desires. You want Cate to succeed in her quest. This is what makes this film so brilliant, so tangible. You are drawn into the world of these characters and left wondering about their fate long after the credits.

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[image courtesy of Darley Street Disco]

Ego-syntonicity (and the making of lists)

These lists are neither conclusive, in order or of any real significance.

Things I Like: Kind eyes, snow, the ocean, the sound of rain of rooftops, waves crashing against rocks, the sky, the way the air smells before a storm, reading, old ladies who wear pearls to lunch, warm socks in winter, my mum’s apple cake, coffee, Michael Haneke movies, Dutch cheese, clogs, freedom, Woody Allen movies, clean sheets, the individual, choice, cemeteries, taking photographs, architecture, Paris, books you can tear pages out of, flamenco, road trips, foreign films, reptiles, Christmas Eve, black leather boots, swimming, creme brûlée, the sound of children playing, ghost stories, Hong Kong, city lights, tacos, art galleries, bees and honey, bookshops, lazy Sundays, fairy floss, generosity, people who follow their hearts, a moments silence in a crowded/busy place.

Things I Don’t Like: Judgmental people, injustice, fast food, child abuse, cruelty to animals, apathy, thoughtlessness, the cost of housing, wet markets, bad coffee, gardening, narrow-mindedness, being outdoors during a thunderstorm, allergies, misogyny, being leered at, super sweet cocktails, people who spit in public, men who don’t wear shirts at sweaty concerts, stale popcorn, warm milkshakes, cold tea, dirty fingernails, stewed fruit, doing the laundry, mosquitos, people who talk loudly on their mobile phones at art galleries, inequality, being underestimated, breaking a glass, rude drivers, writer’s block, stereotyping, nepotism, disease, disingenuous people, running out of hot water, people talking loudly during movies/ theatre/ opera, reverse parking.

Things I Am Good At: Writing, making people laugh, baking cookies, eating with chopsticks, small talk, making coffee, research, observation, treating people as individuals, thinking logically, empathising, handstands.

Things I Wish I Was Better At: Drawing, the harmonica, math, forgiveness, French, relaxing, sewing.

Once We Were Lovers

I need you
again
like it was
when it was golden

in my bed
in my lungs
curled up
deep and tight

before
forked tongues split
lies and hate
festered in our skulls

my heart
it is yours
in the darkness, alone
with my breath

rasping
my heart…

Remembering
feet thumping
doors slamming, hard
how could you be so hard?

Your words pounding
my fists pounding
my cheeks
no longer rosy

not like the day
we met by that wild ocean

in amongst the tall
elm trees and
ghostly apparitions
how I feared those strangers

you carried me
away on whispers
promises, kisses
no more

No longer mine
No, not anymore.

take my heart
I no longer want it
now that it is yours
and you are gone.

Like Fire

I forgot that I had loved you
With a love that must
have seeped away
Slinking like a wet cat
into a dark corner

On my door step
you covered my eyes
A tar black curtain,
thick and smoky
Choking my lungs

Crawling back into me
Cosy under my flesh
You nestled, warmly
Melded like concrete
set solid on my bones

Shake you off?
I mustn’t.

My lips are not my lips
They are moving
Quivering, on your fingertips
Pillows soft and pink, open
Pouting marionette

Your hands, clawing, gripping
My little puppet heart
spilling blood straining
Rhythmic sporadic seizures
Bleeding, pumping, forcing

The smell of you, unrelenting
Boots near my bed
Dark hair, spider legs
foreign and curly
in my basin, on my soap

Poisoned apple, indomitable
You fill the room, baneful
Toxic with your smile
Toxic with your lies
I swallow them wholeheartedly

There are no stars here now
You blew them out
Twisted candles on my cake
Do not wish upon them
Those charred soldiers are dead

I forgot that I had loved you
With a love that must have
fallen into memory filled cracks
Love filled floorboards,
filled with hate
and like fire.