Saturday, March 1, 2014

A dream, a vow.

A stray leaf makes a fuzzed ruffling amongst the Autumn wind; to journey across the grass is all it is destined to do. Aloft it can be, but meant to stay below and with the waves of green for an eternity. 

She will be there, a shepard hidden and embraced by the willow trees.

There is a pond nearby, crafted gently - bristle by bristle she builds a paradise for a soul so tempered, a ghost so void; never to hold anything in its wake.

Blind maybe.

Cold maybe.

Broken...

...maybe to a lesser eye, tempered is rhetoric for the grounds of evil.
But for all the negativity in the soft grassy plains of a shepard, she will always look up.

It's like starlight.

But not. 

Like a raging sea.

But not. 

It is everything the wayward light touches.

The morning light wakes her eyes as you stare at them floating on the calm currents of the winter pillows.
You caress her face, detailing her smile, waiting on your last breaths to see her eyes open again as she squints in glee in your company. 

You don't have to say words.

You don't have to detail the weightless feeling that rushes to your shoulders.

Just kiss her.

Let the sun shine through the room.

Let the leaves fall with every memory written in every single micro vein of that once flourishing sun mast of a brave sea.
They will continue to fly with the simple memory that you will wake up with her the morning and never have to dream again. 

That you will see this through.

A vow.

A dream.

That's all there ever is.

A bliss ever soo sweet you cannot let things falter.

You are devoted.

You are alive.

You are the strength in the foundation you share.

Invincible.

...

...

Your eyes open.

Blind.

Cold.

You are fixed.

Shades of the objects that once were family decorated the room you lived in.
The pillows now stale and crusting beneath your tired head.

You can see her.

She beckons you closer.

Lips muted as your eyes see love.

Starlight glimmers ever brighter when the room is black.

Your hand moves closer across the bed sheet, gliding amongst the white rustled silk.

She breathes out to you.

The air surrounds you like a warm blanket, amplifying the beat in your chest as you reach closer.

Your hand passes straight through her.

Devoid in a callous mist. 

...

...

Life is just too fair.
These memories are equal in all their nature.
For there is is a kiss that lingers on through the darkness of the night. 

There is a kiss a ghost gives that will spark wildfires that will trample everything in its wake.

A kiss that you see in the nights wake, not felt behind the willow tree or by the pond.

But a kiss.

...

....

......

The bed turns into dust and you open the front door, greeted by the morning sun, the soft breeze - the rustle of leaves. You will stride amongst the paddock chasing those memories, just for a short embrace.

Crush the leaves, and the world turns into the shades you once loved.

Pain becomes the only compromise.

...

....

I promise.

I vow.

Will.

...

You reside over the pond now and greet the fish who will never remember their own names.
Flakes of bread leave your fingers and disappear into a mild abyssal void...

...with close floating bristles.



Photo from: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-opAFfaYZV38/TaZ__0BSLeI/AAAAAAAAAJs/8pEarqEZTg4/s1600/Australia%2BDay%2B09%2B023.jpg


The mindless ramblings of Symon M. Taylor.


Tuesday, September 3, 2013

Your mundane is our world.

Blog piece written and original photo taken from my HTC One mobile phone.





She's content, this girl in yellow dress.
 

She licks the foam off coffee cup lid; eyes closed, nostrils wide and escaping into a world inside that freckled face.
 
Starring outside the window as coffee steam fogs the graffiti'ed glass; dark hazel eyes scanning for a new surprise, resting her paper cup, still hot as it sways gently so.


The train rocks to a stop, but she takes no heed; for a paper bagged creamed donut takes her further into the world behind her freckled face.
 
Her fingers pick and break off a bite sized piece, carefully observed, enhancing her every cell: to be tantalized in something crispy sweet, her eyes forced closed in wonder of simple pleasure.
 
Manners hold no place in of moments of happiness, as she slides the donut further out of the bag for a bite bigger than anticipated.
 
She shys away, thinking herself the fool. Chewing what she can, hand held before her mouth to keep back the escaping sweet bread and thick cream from falling away into the forgotten depths of the passenger train floor.
 
But none shall pass, there is a persistance, there is a commitment, there is a proud sense of achievement as she finishes the mouthful.
 
Now with dry throat, her coffee is in need. Swapping their places, the coffee and he; she gently blows icy air to calm this hot mess.
 
Coffee cap on, and cooled to order, she sips through the gap in the fence, to free all anxieties.
 
For such a feeling is always enhanced with a check back to the window, and life moving by as you move by it; rocking away - only moving forward on that passenger train.
 
The donut continues to be picked on, and the coffee droughts empty, starred at in confusion to the world behind the freckled face.
 
She cleans her pale yellow dress, straightens her collar white, and neatens her hair; to stare back outside the window, content in a world beyond her freckled face.



The mindless ramblings of Symon M. Taylor

Monday, December 5, 2011

Toast to the Midnight.


America - 1962 - A time of great fear.


Unstained by the night sky, a man walks through New York fitted with a grey suit, untidy - just the way he liked it. Pocket watch reads half past eleven, as he walked on the carpets greeted outside the lobby doors.


"You're late? You're usually so very prompt in returning here Mr. Heller. As you doorman, I request you spare me a story."

"Nothing happened tonight Jeffrey. I just, got caught up in a few things. I don't have the time for this right now."

"Now now sir, you're tone seems frustrated. Yet, your face details itself with glee. The password is simple - what happened tonight?"

"I'm not so sure Jeffrey, but I know tomorrow's going to be a good day."

"And why is that Mr. Heller?"

"Because I kissed her goodnight."


The doors open wide and passing smiles were exchanged. The doorman closes the door, and leaves the man to his scrambling thoughts. The clicks of his heels reverberate across the hallway, suddenly muted to the ring of a bell. The rusty elevator doors screech closed as the slow ascent to the high rised apartments cast feelings of uncertainty. A lowly newspaper twitches in the corner next to the air duct stating - "15 Minutes to Midnight!" And with a sudden jolt, the lift comes to a halt, as the gates screech once more.

Thunderous footsteps greeted his path, as all else was still, fixed to their radios and televisions.


"..the evils of Communist..."
"..missile crisis could not be averted..."
"...it's the balance of power, them or U.S."
"...President Kennedy assures the people of America.."
"...EXCOM meeting in the Whitehouse was a waste of time!"
"...they are a bunch of lunatics! No Russian has the audacity to push the button!"


Keys chatter out of his pocket, fighting to be the next one on duty. They are sorted out, pushed to the side to find the one best fitting. The door creeps open.
Shadows made from the City Lights outside the windows welcome the man. But it is not home. The fridge, now littered with stale goods rotting in their cases, was left open bringing a chill to the back of his neck. It hums more comfortably now, sealed away and left to itself.

A bottle of fine brandy clinks upon the glass as it is poured whilst eyes watch over the City in pity. The pocket watch now reads five minutes to midnight, un-caring, so very calculated. The gears would keep turning, waiting for no one - but could be broken. Now falling off the balcony, the watch still ticks - but not after its last shattering moment - a sign it's not invincible.

The glass of liquid amber is lifted high, sitting next to the moon though the man's eyes. All that remained was the ring of the glass as it was sat upon the balcony's stone rails. The lights of the apartment then flickered and eased to remain lit - a woman stands idly by, eyes fixed on the startled man.


"I don't want to risk it James."

"Risk what? I abandoned you on top of those stairs! You should hate me!"

"For saving me the pain of loosing you?"


He exhales.


"For saving us both, Alice. We should not be so entwined with these petty feelings for one another."

"So what did I feel tonight? Rage? Frustration? No god damn it James I love you!"


Silence deafens the both of them. She slowly strides towards him.


"It was a kiss goodbye for a reason Alice. We both know what's about to happen."

"I don't care. Just please hold my hand once more."


Bright lights flash in the background, and the cool wind breeze turns into an inferno. The couple press their hands against each others, as they both turn to dust.



--
This came to me in a dream. I just had to fit it in History.
--
The mindless Ramblings of Symon M. Taylor.



Wednesday, November 23, 2011

The Trip.




Well here I was, tired, and exhausted - warming up my lights to start the most important production of my life. Soo much has happened this year, and it's hard to fully absorb and comprehend what has just happened. The times we live in.

The lights - they make you feel things. They amplify the smallest movement into an eruption of emotion - and during the Overture, they make their faces as bright as the burning stars. To manipulate these lights has been quite the experience.

I have done much this year. Many things. Ranging from my proudest moments, to my deepest regrets - regrets that still play on my mind every time I look back.

Strange creatures greet my path.

And titans walk beside me.

I thank Andrew Martin for guiding me along the way during the Second Year Costume Show: "Stiches of Time." He is by far the most experienced man I've met in my journey - and I thank him most for his mentoring, his patience, and just believing in me.


They signed me up to be Swinburne's first Student Technical Coordinator - with the power to make the executive decisions - but with that power came the power to make it all fail. Such responsibility. Such commitment. So many sacrifices for the end product.

I regret that. Disappointing all those close to me just to plan another setup.

But I got it done, to be enlightened with the fact that those I thought I disappointed were there in the crowd. "I noticed your hard work." they'd say - and that the disappointments that were made were atoned. "I watched you succeed." they said.

But now what is there? I've scaled my mountain and bathed in its landscape. How do I reach the stars?

It's time I fall.

I met a great man during this production. His name is Ian, and he played the main role. Never before have I aspired to be someone more than myself, or my father before I met him. Actor, stand-up comedian and future Archaeologist - Ian and I spoke insightful words of History, Conspiracy, Philosophy and Physics. We spoke of the Universe as if we had just read the first page of the Chapter, and all the answers hid on the last page of the book.

Like the children rambling on about what the next page would speak of, sanity left us and let free mindless thoughts of what has been written - and bound our chaotic words into a mad sense.

Our truth is simple, and our fight is optional - we know every word of the last chapter, inside and out. The last pages of the book have been read over and over again. They appear to us in our dreams, they are shown to us through memories, and stories of the impossible. And why we can't turn to the second page of the First Chapter? Because we always re-trace the first sentence we read.

Much like life we look back to History for the answers, only to find holes we continuously fall through. Stuck in these traps, much like Schrodinger's cat inside a box - left with a vial of radioactive poison. We cannot see inside, and the box is impenetrable. The cat is dead and alive.
Life is that paradox. Whether we choose to live it, or whether we choose to succumb to it. We are bigger than this - so we break free from the box with the strength of our voices. Inside the box was just page one, and now I can continue reading.

I stare blankly on the peak of my mountain, looking for something else to scale - I will fly to sun. But much like Icarus my wings will burn, and I shall begin to fall. But I'll hit the ground running, back up to scale the mountain again - my next project.

It seems dull to have a cycle as such, but through the hardships we face, we meet new people - and these people show you different ways to fly. They will show you that exerting your energy in the flight to the sun is sometimes, unnecessary. People watch you climb the mountain - and will ensure you glide to the heavens.

For a long time I searched for truth. I searched for the means to know why I suffer, to know why my thoughts strangle my mind. It's because I looked for a pencil, in a mound of erasers.

I have lied. I have hurt. I have betrayed. So I will leave it be written - so that page 2 may come to life. It is enlightening to know such change, that I will no longer be my former self - that I will never be held back by the things that shrouded me in chains.

But for now I'm looking for the next mountain, ready to scale, ready to reach new heights - for I have seen the sun's light - I'll do my best to replicate.


--
The Mindless Ramblings of Symon M. Taylor.




All photos are original - taken by colleagues. My still-frames of existence.

Friday, October 7, 2011

Every time I look back...

"...I believe, what if I believe you now?
Could it ever change this?
Forgive me, don't leave me
And please come back to life
Come back to my life

I believe, what if I believe you now?
Forgive me, relieve me
Please come back life..."





Circle - by Flyleaf.




Monday, June 20, 2011

UP YOURS HUMANITY!



"For now, I just want to be ten thousand years younger, so I can excuse myself from human kind."
- from the song 'Monsters' by Something For Kate.

"If home is where the heart is, then why do I feel so fucking heartless!?"
- from the song 'Home Is For The Heartless' by Parkway Drive.

"And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad. The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had. I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take. When people run in circles, it's a very, very, mad world."
- from the song 'Mad World' by Gary Jules.

"If you were me, could you defend the given rights to all the men? Let's fuck the world with all it's trend, they say it's all about to end..."
- from the song 'They Say' by Scars on Broadway.

"I, am a world before I am a man."
- from the song 'Before I Forget' by Slipknot.

"Stood in the firelight, sweltering. Bloodstain on chest like map of a violent new continent. Felt cleansed. Felt this dark planet turn under my feet, and knew what cats know that makes them scream like babies in the night. Looked at the sky through through the smoke, heavy with human fat and God was not there. The cold, suffocating dark does on forever, and we are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion. There is nothing else. Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them, or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us. Streets stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them. I was reborn then, free to scrawl my own design on this morally blank world. That was Rorschach. Does that answer your questions, Doctor?"
- a monologue from the Graphic Novel 'Watchmen' written by Alan Moore.

"But the foundation is weak,and this time these walls will come down. Why son't you save all the trouble and pull yourself out, and take some gas and a match, and burn it to the ground."
- from the song 'Your World On Fire' by In Fear And Faith.

"And the bright-eyed choke on ambition, and the old folks circle their graves. And the young ones are bust destroying their names; and you're still just wasting away. I sit and watch the screen for a message. Some kind of sign that says we're OK. But the screen stays blank till I turn the thing off, and wait for my conscience to break."
- from the song 'Insomnia' by Electric President.

"They made you believe that it is the perfect world, which these people-nation created for you, and in what you live now. They take advantage of you if you become conscious in order to trample on their dirty system of cruelty, though they take revenge for it. You live as a slave intimidated, more than a humiliated whore... and you believe this is good for you because your character and your self-image are totally malformed already."
- V to Evey in the Graphic Novel 'V for Vendetta' written by Alan Moore.

"Who are you trying to impress, steadily creating a mess? Step in front of a runaway train, just to feel alive again. Pushing forward through the night, aching just blow aside."
- from the song 'Far Away' by José González.

"I lost my leg, like I lost my way. So no loose sounds, nothing to see me down. How are we going to work this out? Dreams aren't bad, my head turned back. I love the gun, but God only know it's getting hard to see the sun, coming through. I love you... But what are we going to do?"
- from the song 'Every Planet We Reach Is Dead' by the Gorillaz.

"Footsteps, echo through hallways. Beneath the neon lighting, everyone looks sick. We sit, on a rusty staircase. You write your name with lipstick, on the rail near the wall. What do you think about me now, that I've fallen down? Watching, the crowds on side walks. A steady hum of nothing, is all that fills the air. And we sit, on a nearby rooftop. It overflows with pigeons, and we idly scare them off. But what do you think about me now, that's I've fallen down?
- from the song 'Hum' by Electric President.


"Why don't you ask the kids at Tienanmen square? Was fashion the reason why they were there? They disguise it, Hypnotize it. Television made you buy it."
- from the song 'Hypnotize' by System of a Down.

"...it's like fixing glass, you're only going to hurt yourself putting it back together..." - Unknown.

"And so once again, my dear friend Johnny my dear friend. And so once again you are fighting us all. And when I ask you why, you raise your sticks and cry and I fall. Oh my friend, how did you come to trade the fiddle for the drum?"
- from the song 'Fiddle and the Drum' by A Perfect Circle.

"The world's got a funny way turning around on you. When a friend tries to stab you right in the face. Loosing faith in everything I thought I hoped I knew."
- from the song 'False Pretence' by Red Jumpsuit Apparatus.

"They brand you with the fire, then push you into the sun. They want the free land to expire, they want everyone to be numb. The world's drinking for a cup, that no one wants to share. Words from the king that no one wants to hear."
- from the song 'The Beast' by Angus and Julia Stone.

"My hate is general, I detest all men;
Some because they are wicked and do evil,
Others because they tolerate the wicked,
Refusing them the active vigorous scorn
Which vice should stimulate in virtuous minds."
- said by Alceste from the French play, "Le Misanthrope ou I'Atrabilaire amoureux" written by Moliere

"But I'm not saying that we could to better, but given the chance we try. We dig up the Earth's trampled soil, feel the drench with greedy eyes."
- from the song 'Juggernauts' by Enter Shikari

"I love you soo much, I'm going to let you kill me..."
- from the song 'I'm Not Calling You A Liar' By Florence and the Machine.

Picture from:
http://www.banksy-prints.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/banksy-boston.jpg

By Banksy


Revelations: 2011

These quotes, these mindless lyrics, these artists that have shaped my form have taught me that there is no hope within what we see. There is no salvation in trying to fix what ten thousand other people have already tried to fix. There is no benevolence in finding spirituality. People have attempted to convince me otherwise, and I do listen to their words, but what is it in the end?
What hope is it to me that a being of un-comprehension watches over me and looks after me? Is that not selfish on my part for relying on one who is already burdened by soo many? I will not.
Since the start of this year, I've felt everything humanly possible, and now as my walls come closing around me, all these memories eat away at every last bit of sanity I have, even affecting my integrity.

Or perhaps is it something different?

A few years ago, devastating things happened to me. Something, nobody should experience, but has made me all the better. To deal with all the pain I suffered then, I self-destructed, and from there, I re-invented myself. I fear it's repeating itself, and I don't like this outlook.

I've become sentimental,
I've become envious,
I've become mildy spiritual,
I'm ignorant,
I'm thirsty for knowledge,
I want power,
I want wisdom,
I want to change the world.
I've become everything I hate.

For what I am is human, and in being human I am ashamed. An insignificant entity who has a chance to save the world, but will not because I am hurt. Because I have emotion. Because I know, no matter what anybody does to change us, History will repeat itself because we never really do learn.

I am Everyman, in all of his flaws.
And in those flaws, we leave our hearts to digress its beat due to the illogical Phenomenon of Emotion.

But still we feel.
Still we love,
Still we hate,
Still we remain happy,
Still we direly hurt,
And still we let these emotions encumber our souls.

I hate what I am.

I am human.

I loved.

I failed.


And still these emotions pester me. Even with all this negativity, there is a poking hope inside my head that also whispers to me. She tells me that Humanity is doomed, and it's okay. She tells me that, even though there is soo much injustice, soo much oppression, soo many lies; there is still hope.





We. Are. ALIVE.

It is such a simple concept. We are the ones who made ourselves animated entities on a free world to roam, and discover. We evolved and developed eyes to absorb light, ears to pick up the vibrations in the air, and a voice to make those vibrations.
These vibrations did shatter the Earth, and malformed it into every shape possible. All because we were given a mind.

But never do I think it stops at the mind.

She tells me not to. She tells me that there is always more. That's why the mind is made to perceive, not just learn. The mind is just the data base, where logic makes the decisions, but always in contest with her. She never lets down the fight.

She is my old, wearied soul.

I have not found a name to suit her yet, but she calls herself Farah; an Arabic name meaning 'Joyful.'

She enjoys taunting me, and she taught me why.
There is another step in existence, I know it. I don't know what it is, and I can only hypothesise, and even then I will still be wrong.

She wants me to learn, she wants me to experience, she wants me to know what it is to hurt so that one day... One day, I will truly appreciate what it means to be happy.

I am almost there however. Not matter what you may think is happening in my life, and with my emotions, and how negative you think this post is; I am content. I am fulfilling myself. My life is unfolding like any great story would. I am proud of what I am achieving in both my successes, and in my failures.


Charlotte, if you have managed to read this far, I commend you. For still with your light blue eyes you watch me. And know, I do not hate you. I never have. All my past promises haven't expired.
I was told the news, and know I just hope happiness is all he gives you. It is my only wish.


And to all the others who have read this far, who have read this long and pointless dragging rant about how fucked we are, just know we are alive. And with all of our strength and integrity, we can become the foundations of something greater, something greater than being just human.

Something much, much more...


Picture from:


- The mindless ramblings of Symon Moriarty Taylor.

Friday, June 3, 2011

Cherry Red, the night at Bennies.

Dear Tis,

Still I dream of that night, and the one kiss I should never have given you.
Yet, with scarred heart, I kissed your lips; blind, standing on chance.

You were confused, self-ambitious, life planned to the T.
Then I came along.


Remember those days that passed before?


We talked like the complaining crows that feast on bread crumbs plenty,
Just to whisper "More more!" in just our closed space.

But the bread crumbs do lie there untouched,
Just in our reach, yet we sit as they stale.

We pick on the smaller pieces, just a little bit to satisfy.
But I starve to the line 'Nevermore,' to which I shall obey.

It was the one line you gave me, on the Red Carpets of Bennies.
But it's the one line you do not wish to trust yourself.

We do bicker as the Gods hold us in the highest favour,
Joking in the masses, teasing each other's achievements.

Even after you said nevermore, and even after we danced like rose vines in Spring,
Nothing has changed about how we feel, only a barrier of time.

Seven leagues does this barrier wall stretch to the sky,
Seven leagues you refuse to ignore, even after I have climbed to the top and thrown you down a ladder.

To pull you up is all I want to do, yet, how do you feel?
Or does reality say that I am lone on the ground, whilst you reside seven leagues in the sky?

Effort will come in time, yet still repeating and scratching in my mind you say nevermore.
And your arms stretch from behind me, embracing my wearied soul.

You talked to me about those bread crumbs that lie behind us,
For all you want is a loaf of bread.


Being ready to play the part of the baker's second, you think I am not.


We have not shared all of our stories yet,
And even now we trace our steps back from the bread-crumb trail, half eaten by scavengers.

As I leave my bakery, I spread the leftovers for the crows,
Who watch my life from every angle, waiting patiently to strike.

I find comfort though, every time I see you.
Just those eyes and that gleaming smile sets my heart-rate to zero.

Not a death defying act though, gazing my eyes on you.
I just hope you're not being hurt by it.

You will fly away in summer, to the northern lands, to your dream.
All apart of your grand plan.

I, will reside here however.
My dreams are living through me, and as I sleep, reality washes my hands.

Whatever choice you make, know that we owned the night at Bennies.
And however close we are, falling into the sea of bread is just a step forward;


One last step.


- Symon.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Liquid Gold, Amber Tinge.

A toast to all that has passed, and the memories that dead in aftermath.
Ode to the those faces, mindless, but with your watching eyes.

I did believe in the unending expanse of time, forever.
I never thought of fixing the glass at a Jewish Wedding.

I raise my glass, in the room's closing walls.
Just to feel numb, at least for a second.

I slap the faces of open armed friends.
I push everything, all out of my way.

Never can I burden myself with a smile.
Something soo perfect, given poison sting.

My mind clouds me with fairy tales gashing wildly at my chest.
Never letting me wake, never again to those morning eyes.

I still bleed though, don't I?
I still think, I still speak, I still look at my empty hands!

Scream these soothing anthems, tear apart my these scourged memories.
Then let me not wake to the nail-clip moon, watching the morning's sky.

Happiness, is it so deafening?
I know I should have seen this coming.

But take comfort though, you are moving on well.
Aloft, in a soft whimsical wind.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Sallie And Barry: The Bubble.

Picture From:



Just a short little scene I thought of whilst on the Train back from the City. Based on the Absurdist Play - "Waiting for Godot," written by Samuel Beckett.


Barry:
Sallie?

Sallie:
Yes Barry?

Barry:
Why we inside this bubble?

Sallie:
I donno. I can see my house from here!

Barry:
Sallie, we don't have homes. We're in this bubble!

Sallie:
Oh. I got some chocolate!

Barry:
Where'd you get the chocolate!? We've been in this bubble the whole time!

Sallie:
It's not real chocolate. I mean, I just used some of this dirt on the ground to make a pretend bar of chocolate.

Barry: Pauses and stares at Sallie in worry

Sallie:
What is it Barry?

Barry:
We're in a got damn Bubble Sallie! Where the hell did you get dirt from!?

Sallie:
Godot gave it to me.

Barry:
Who the hell is Godot?

Sallie:
He put us in this bubble, so we can float the skies away from the trouble underneath us.

Barry:
Yes, but who is he?

Sallie: Pause
I really like this chocolate!

Barry:
There's no chocolate in your hands Sallie! You're just nibbling on your shirt.

Sallie:
Oh... How depressing.

Barry:
Oh don't be discouraged Sallie. I bet this "Godot" person has something in mind for us, well if we've been put in this special Bubble.

Sallie: Starts blowing bubbles from a plastic stick

Barry:
Where the hell did you get those bubbles!?

Sallie:
They were just sitting there in my pocket looking all lonely like. Look at them go!

Sallie happily continues to blow bubbles. Barry looks disgruntled at the sight.

Barry:
Look, you going to let me blow some bubbles or not?

Sallie:
Well, have you checked your pockets?

Barry:
I don't have any pockets! Let me blow some bubbles.

Sallie: Cautiously passes the Bubbles to Barry
Don't waste them. Use only what you need.

Barry: Blows on them rapidly laughing hysterically
Oh this is soo fun!

Bubbles run out

Sallie: Looks as if about to cry
They're... They're all gone.

Barry:
Ahh, I've had my fun. So why are we in this bubble?

Sallie:
I don't care anymore. You've wasted all the bubbles!

Barry:
We're inside a giant bubble! Can't you just use some of the liquid off the ground for yourself?

Sallie:
But what if it pops Barry?

Barry: Angry sigh
I don't care, I've had my fun.

Sallie:
But what about me Barry? I don't want to hit the ground...

Barry:
Oh grow up Sallie! We're going to have to put our feet on solid ground soon anyway.

Sallie:
But I don't want to leave this bubble. It has everything!

Barry:
Everything!? There's no food, there's no water, there's nothing to do in here! Whatever Godot put us in here for, the end is going to be the best part.

Sallie:
I think it's comfortable in here. And look! I found a ball!

Sallie starts bouncing the ball

Barry:
Where the hell do you get these things from Sallie!?

Sallie:
I like finding things in my pockets! It's like a treasure hunt!

Barry: Franticly searches around clothes. Looks at Sallie in jealousy. Snatches the ball
Haha! This is going to be fun!

Barry throws the ball. The ball passes straight through the bubble

Sallie:
Well that was anticlimactic. Could have just asked me Barry.

Barry:
Why the hell do you get all these things and I don't!?

Sallie:
I don't know. Things just spring out at me sometimes!

Bubble Bursts. Barry and Sallie free fall.

Barry: Hysterically
Is this what you Godot had planned for us!? Just to wait all that time to fall?!

Sallie:
Look look look Barry! I found a cookie!

Sallie nibbles on cookie while Barry starts screaming

Barry:
It's been good knowing you Sallie you little bastard!

Sallie:
I wish I had my bubbles right now.

Barry lands inside another bubble. Sallie exits

Barry: Shouts and screams in happiness. Kisses bubble
Oh! Oh I'll never doubt this bubble again. It's scary out there! Did you find anything else there Sallie?

Barry looks around to see Sallie landing safely on the ground. Sallie re-enters frolicking in the grass

Sallie you bastard! Come back and get me!

Sallie takes no notice

Sallie: Talks to a tree
Hello there. Have you seen my friend Barry? We're being taken to Godot!

Pause

Shy are we? Don't worry, I won't eat you. I'm a carnivore, rawr!

Barry:
Sallie! I'm here! I'm up here you stupid bastard! Godot... I hate this bubble...

Barry starts screaming while falling upwards

Sallie: Talks to a pot plant
Hello Godot!



- A Short Script Play by Symon Taylor



This play probably doesn't make any sense to you whatsoever. It's highly symbolic though. You may take the bubbles as little extracts of technology distracting people everyday, or even being encased within them. And the moments spent without it feels as if you're falling, and that nothing can be done without them. But just fall, see what happens to you then. You may take the symbolic references in anyway possible, it's free for the mind to interpret; because that's what I aimed to do.

It's a story created in absurdity, purely symbolic.



Saturday, October 2, 2010

So Sick

This is an original image taken inside of the National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne.

I've spent a lot of time in the city,
Seeing and hearing it's experiences of sound and design.
At heart, everyone is sick.

I get lost in the smog of tobacco smoke up and down Swanston,
Lost in a sea of Black as the Flinder's Goths swarm at night,
And battered with conformist suit-wear within the CBD.

I remembered when the Yarra was not brown in the clarity of last year's Summer,
I remembered a city of welcome, but not replaced with eyes of judgement.
I remembered a city of charity for the beggar, now dieing in the trash cans drenched in glutton, spelt with capital "M's".

Now it's been reduced to cut-throats, skin tight vanity, and Religious Extremists; of Bible, skin and air pumped foot-balls.

I found where what I remember retreats to though;
Across the river, dodging the trolls underneath the bridge,
Flourishing in white fountain...

And there, I made a wish to the sounds of oriental strings.

Give me trees, give me grass, give me emotion!
The Art's Centre of Melbourne, I want more than the sounds of cars screeching, or the Clown screaming "4 more quarter pounders!"
Take me away from the synthetic lights shouting to buy.

Give me something to feel, other than city heart sickness or a drunken slurr.
I thirst inspiration amongst the grass and flower-made clock,
Show me who knoweth first on rock made statue heads.

You provide the city, life;
Life to caputre, life to paint, life to sing, and life to act.
Near the palms and willows I write,

My favorite place in the city.



- A contemplation of thoughts by Symon Taylor.