Burn Biro Burn

The writings of Anna Morley.

[burningbiro]

Heartfelt cheese

Love moves me to tears It's cheesy but it's true I just can't help myself.

When I hear how strong hearts Can overcome the impossibility of life To dance to together to each other's rhythm.

When I see how the acute joy Of being together is like a hurricane Blowing away all worries and fears.

When I learn that surrounded by the warmth of love The bitterness of humans and their daily existence Melts away like snow on the first days of spring.

When I realise how people turn compassion into action Joining together like sparkling firework displays and Filling the sky with colour for miles.

Tears tickle my lids, and my insides feel funny and warm and I'm like a shooting star.

Twinkling high up in the sky Hoping that those who dare to look up Will capture a spark of the wonder I feel At the human capacity to love.

[burningbiro]

Having a killer time

I kill time Time is killing you. Why can't I kill the time that's killing you? So we can be together Without time?

[burningbiro]

Schreibwut, du wunderbare

Liebe belebt die Sinne Glück beflügelt den Geist; Drückt mir den Stift in die Hand 

Und bevor du's weißt Stehen Worte auf Papier Schwarz auf Weiß, Zeile um Zeile. 

Brauch' kein Wein, kein Bier Nein, nur eine Berührung von dir Reicht für mindestens tausend Worte. 

Metaphern, Floskeln, fremde Orte Mein Hirn es lebt und blüht wie wild Und erklimmt täglich höchste Gipfel 

Mit Lyrik und Liebe gefüllt Und ner geilen Aussicht von oben Prickeln meine Finger voll verlangen. 

Mit jedem Kuss kommen Ideen geflogen Und räkeln sich in meinem Kopf Bis sie aufs Papier gelangen. 

Mein Kopf ist frei, mein Herz ist voll Ich pack das Leben beim Schopf und weiß genau dass alles genau so schön sein soll.

[burningbiro]

Rosemary (a short story)

A crisp spring breeze raced along Rosemary Avenue and through Vincent's sparse hair. The two of them were well acquainted from his daily walks, but it was a surprise to find him on this particular street. He didn't usually change his route; he preferred the comfort of routine, of knowing every sticky-out stone in the pavement, when to watch out for bicycling kids and when to anticipate cars at busy crossings. Recently though, he'd found himself taking detours to walk past the Macadamia Nut, a little cafe on St. George's Street just off Rosemary Avenue. As he was approaching the cafe, he used both hands to smooth down his tousled hair. Usually, he just just walked past; today, he was going in. 

A bell jingled hello and the smell of coffee and cinnamon welcomed Vincent like a warm embrace. He stepped inside and sat down at the table by the window at the end of the coffee bar. Opposite him, the narrow shop was decked out with a long wooden bench and a number of mismatched tables. Across from him: the reason he'd been so uncharacteristically unpredictable on his walks.

The first time he spotted Rosie in the Macadamia Nut had been pure coincidence. He hadn't meant to walk along St George's at all, but had bumped into an acquaintance who insisted they were going the same way and that he knew a 'shortcut' that'd be so much quicker. So they'd walked, and Bob from Bingo Wednesdays had gone on about fishing gear something or other, while Vincent's eyes wandered in search of other distractions. He didn't know her name but fancied she looked like a Rosie, with her pale pink blouse and mother of pearl buttons. Her no-nonsense bob framed a carefully made up face and a resolutely straight nose. Sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup, you could tell she was a lady of sophistication. 

 Vincent straightened the salt and pepper shakers as the waitress approached him. 'Camomile tea please' he said, his eyes inadvertently flitting to Rosie behind her. 'Wonderful, I'll get that for you.' On her way back to the coffee counter she called over to Rosie 'Anything else for you, Madge?' Vincent blinked. What an extraordinarily pedestrian name. He meticulously lined up the sugar dispenser with the salt and pepper shakers. He hadn't actually planned any further than this. Somehow he'd believed walking into the cafe would be the hardest part. Then, their eyes would meet and Rosie would smile slightly, instantly recognising him as a kindred spirit. He would order another pot of tea – for two – and join her at her table. The conversation would flow naturally. A small vase of flowers joined the salt, pepper and sugar line up. 

'Quite the dreamer, aren't you?' A raspy voice ripped him out of his reverie. Vincent looked up to see an elderly lady in paint-smeared dungarees standing at his table, leaning worryingly close to the teapot that had materialised there. 'Err...' His eyes focused on a lime green smear on her pant leg. 'Just staring into space, you were. Not one for daydreaming myself to be honest. Always thought there were more exciting things all around me than in me head. Mind you, you wouldn't want to know what's in there at the best of times... Anywhere interesting?' '... Pardon?' 'In your head. Were you anywhere interesting?' 'Oh. Er. No. Just here. I guess.' His eyes flitted to Rosie/Madge, which, of course, didn't go unnoticed. 'Oh. Don't tell me. Got a little crush, have we?' Vincent looked at the teapot. What looked like blue dots were actually tiny little hearts covering the enamel surface. '...No' he answered with what he hoped was non-chalance. 'Seriously!' She pulled up a chair and tucked one foot under. Vincent eyes held onto his orderly line of condiments. 'Let me give you a piece of advice. All that's waiting for you there is a whole lot of grief. Miss Madge here, see, she's a real heartbreaker. Don't be fooled by all that tea-sipping. Underneath the pretty facade... there's trouble brewing you can't even begin to imagine. Trust me, I'm a regular here.' 'Making new friends, Darcie?' The waitress called over. To Vincent she said 'Just send her on her way if she's bothering you. She's harmless, just chatty' Vincent nodded and gestured at his teapot. 'Thanks for the tea' 'And you should drink it before it's cold too.' Darcie said, picking up the pot and pouring him a cup. 'Sugar?' 'Er. No thanks. Just on Saturdays' 'Just like me! Except on Saturdays I have a wine-only policy.' Vincent looked bewildered. 'Oh, lighten up. It's a beautiful day and the tea here isn't half bad. You should have a cookie too! It's their speciality. Hey Trish, could we get one of those macadamia cookies?' 

The cookie was brought over and Vincent started nibbling at it. 'Good?' Vincent nodded, eyes on the cookie. 'Bit of sugar will do you good in any case. Looking a bit pale around the gills.' She fingered a paint brush sticking out of one of her pockets. 'So, tell me about you.' Vincent chewed and looked at a mismatched button on her dungarees. 'What's your story? Your life, your hopes, your dreams... Well, aside from the one right here.' She chuckled. 'Who are you, Mr Camomile Tea?' Who indeed? Vincent put the cookie down and cleared his throat. 'Well...' He looked helplessly over to the waitress, who was busy with other customers; then to Rosie, Madge, who was sipping her tea demurely. Was this normal coffee shop behaviour? '...Gardens.' He cleared his throat again. 'I used to work at the botanic gardens. Well I, I still do... Help out from time to time. They have trouble with the hydrangeas sometimes.' She nodded. 'Terribly tricky creatures, those. If only they weren't so beautiful eh?' 'Well, yes.. You see, it's all about the pruning! You need to prune them regularly or the stalks won't be strong enough to support the flowers. And then there's the soil of course...' 'Tricky business, sounds like... Aren't they in bloom right about now?' Vincent looked at her, surprised. 'Yes, they are! Checked on them just yesterday actually.' He took a sip of his tea. 'There's nothing quite like a hydrangea in bloom, is there? My mother always used to say they're the dreams of angels, materialised on earth.' Darcie's smile brightened. 'And what does it mean that they go so horribly brown then?' 'Well, I suppose every dream wilts eventually...' 'Plus there's such a better climate in heaven. At least, that's what I hear.' Vincent looked Darcie in the eyes for the first time and found them twinkling. He smiled 'Yes, I believe that's true.' After a brief silence, he asked 'And what about you? You're a... painter?' 'I suppose I am aren't I?' Her hand went back to the hairs of her paintbrush. 'What kind of things do you paint?' 'Oh, you know. All sorts. People, places, things. Things that inspire me, capture my imagination. That's the real beauty of painting you know. The freedom of it... I should like to paint you, actually!' 'I don't think...' 'Yes, a portrait amongst your hydrangeas' Darcie continued, undeterred. 'I can almost see it already. A sea of dusky blue...' 'Not necessarily' '...Mh?' 'They're not necessarily blue. It... It depends on the acidity. Of the soil.' 'Is that true?' 'Yes! The more acidic the soil, the bluer the flowers. More alkaline and they're more pinkish.' 

Across the other side of the cafe, Madge was making a move to leave, throwing on a stiff felt coat. As she passed their table, Vincent caught the smell of musty lavender, like long-forgotten moth balls in the back of an armoire. He looked up and saw a stern-eyed woman approach their table who must've entered just as Madge left. 'There you are!' Vincent looked behind him, wondering who she was talking to. 'And where else would I be?' Darcie answered brightly. 'I waited for you at the library. After your book club finished?' 'Oh, those old turds. I've just been learning about floriculture from this young man here.' The woman gave Vincent a tight smile. 'That's great mum. Maybe you two could continue that conversation another time?' 'Oh Becca, stop being such a busy-body. Sit down, have a cuppa!' 'I'm sure Dr Edgarson wouldn't appreciate being made to wait.' 'And who's he to talk!' 'Mother, let's not get into this. You don't want to make a scene in front of your friend, do you?' 'Vincent' he offered helpfully. Rebecca gave him a curt nod. 'Pleasure. I'm afraid we do have get going.' She grabbed Darcie's bag from another table and pulled her mother from her chair. 'Alright alright, I'm quite capable of getting myself ready, thank you very much'

In a matter of seconds Rebecca had settled the bill, collected Darcie's things and ushered her mother towards the door. With a final nod to Vincent she was off to get the car, leaving a slightly dishevelled Darcie standing in the doorway. 'Well... Vincent? I'm sorry to have to rush off like this. I'm afraid I... Um. I guess my daughter is... She can be a little overbearing.' Her smile only reached one side of her mouth. 'But we should do this again. Same time next week!' 'Yes... that would be nice.' She beamed at him. 'Righty Ho. And make sure you finish that cookie!' Her thick knitted scarf swung towards Vincent as she dashed off and left him with a hint of fresh rosemary. He sipped his tea, which was now rather cold, and wondered at the turn this day had taken. 'Never a dull moment in this place' remarked the waitress who had come to wipe Madge's table and smiled at Vincent. Trying to make conversation, he said 'Some people are in such an awful rush all the time...' 'I know Rebecca, she's a lovely woman. Does the best she can in the circumstances. If I'd known she was looking for Darcie I'd have dropped her a text.' 'Just a misunderstanding, I'm sure.' The waitress finished straightening the chairs and faced Vincent. 'I'm sure you're right... It's not all there is to it though. Cos... Darcie's first stage Alzheimer's you know. She's still chipper as can be, but she does muddle things up. Dates and that. Rebecca does keep her on a tight leash nowadays, but who can blame her when stuff like this happens. Just not turning up to her book club...' She tucked her cloth into her apron. 'Anyway... Anything else I can get for you?' 'No thanks.' He was quiet for a moment. 'Well, at least Darcie still has her art.' 'Oh? Is that what she told you? Yeah... Darcie isn't an artist. Hasn't painted for years from what Bex tells me. Not since she was a girl. But hey, maybe she's just started up again.' she added. 

Vincent eyed his half-eaten cookie thoughtfully. He broke off a piece, popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly. As he licked his finger and dabbed at the remaining morsels, he wondered what Darcie was doing now, and thought that he should really repay the favour and buy her a cookie back, next time.

[burningbiro]

Summer — A short story

She'd come into his life like a summer storm, full of unadulterated emotion and joy. Before he knew what was happening the storm had engulfed him and his whole universe; and it felt surprisingly good, deliciously refreshing. Since knowing Nina, Max thought he knew what the French meant by joie de vivre. 

/////////////

When she first met Max, she'd known he was shy and introverted. She had barely been able to tell if he fancied her at all! Only with the encouragement of a particularly sparkling star had she dared to make her move that night by the bonfire. Maybe she should've suspected the extent of his emotional guardedness. But she was infatuated to a fault, and who could resist that perfect mouth? 

///////////// 

He knew Nina wanted to know what was going on in his head. Once, they'd been drying in the sun by a friend's pool. 'I don't even know if you think I'm pretty', she'd said. How she couldn't know that was a mystery to him. He loved the way her face lit up when she smiled (which was often), the way her skin shone in the sun, and how her eyes sparkled when she got excited. Pretty? An understatement. As usual, words had eluded him.

///////////// 

As Nina approached their meeting spot – a corner of the beach shaded by a big oak tree – she steeled herself. He was smoking, as usual. She touched his hair, crouched down to give him a kiss and sat down next to him on the blanket. She snuggled into him for a second, breathing in his scent. How was it possible for someone to smell this good? He looked at her. 'How was your day?' 'Good. Busy. Yours?' 'Mh mh, good. Just chilling.' She smiled. 'You and your active lifestyle.' He chuckled. They were silent, looking out over the water. Her heart started beating faster. Now or never. She pulled back and looked into Max's face. God you're beautiful, she thought. 'I need to talk to you' she said. 

/////////////// 

Max felt queasy. His heart was beating fast and he was sure he must look like he was about to pass out. 'I've been thinking a lot recently. About us.' He nodded, keeping his face calm. 'I don't think we should continue seeing each other after the summer.' She took a shaky breath. 'It's just... It's been such a perfect summer and being with you has felt.... so very good. But when we get back to real life... I don't know if it'll be the same. And I don't want this to turn into something ordinary, something less perfect. Do you know what I mean?' He was lost for words. She went on. 'I feel like I'd rather remember it like this. Like this amazing thing, in this exact place and time. Do you know what I mean?' She asked almost imploringly. 

////////////// 

Max's face was blank but she assumed he was working through what she'd said in one way or another. Even after all these weeks, Nina still had no idea of what was going on in that head of his. Who knew, maybe this was just what he wanted. And anyway, she chided herself. It's what was best for her. Their one-way conversations were so draining... Her constant asking and digging, him responding (barely). Always wondering what he was feeling and what he wanted... She adored him in so many ways, but it just wasn't enough.

///////////// 

Max desperately racked his brain for the right thing to say. 'Nina, I...' She looked at him, eyes hopeful. 'You know I...' He felt his throat closing up. I think you're amazing. 'I think you're...' You're the best and most beautiful person I've ever met. 'I think you're really special' And I've never felt this good, ever. You make me feel like the world is a good place. 'And... I'm glad we met this summer' You make me feel like driving full speed and screaming at the top of my lungs. 'Being with you...' Being with you is like having the lushest 5-course meal created especially for me. '...has been really fun.' And making you laugh feels better than mastering a particularly tricky skateboard trick. 'So yeah... '  Your smile is like my favourite fizzy drink, and holding you is sweeter than all the cigarettes in the world. 'I've had a blast. And to be honest...' I just don't want it to end. I think we could make so much more memories together. 'Yeah... I think you're right. 

///////////// 

She smiled sadly. It's not like she'd been expecting him to change at the last minute. She touched his cheek and kissed him softly. 'Good, I'm glad.'

///////////// 

He knew that this was where he would lose her. But like a spectator witnessing the seconds before a car crash in slow motion, he was unable to do anything about it. 'We've still got a few days, anyway. And plenty of nights.' He made himself smile. She laughed, seeming relieved. 'Exactly. And I for one want to use this particular day to cool off from this bloody heat.' 

///////////// 

She got up, silently stunned at how fast it had all been over. As she started stripping off, she wondered if she'd feel any heartache when she left next week. Or if she'd be mainly relieved to leave this emotional roller coaster behind. Secretly, she was scared what leaving him might be like. She looked back at Max as she started walking towards the water. 'Come on lazy bum' 

///////////// 

Max watched her as she entered the lake, the cool water pearling off her brown skin. He traced her with his eyes, from her dark long locks to her round butt with the slightly too small pants. He sat there, drinking it all in. With a dull ache in his chest, he realised then that for a moment he'd had it all. His heart had been full and the world had been theirs. He stripped off his shirt and followed her into the water.

[burningbiro]

Interval — A short story

He stood like a stone amongst a gargling river of people. Eager theatre goers pushed past him towards the entrance as his eyes scanned the crowds. The likelihood of Violet showing up now was slim, but then he’d never been one to give up hope before he strictly had to. ‘Childlike positivity’ Violet liked to call it. She also liked to say that she found it endearing. He’d wait here till the last call to be seated, and only then resign himself to a solitary night of theatre. Then again, she might still show. 

As he stood there, Rowan couldn’t help but feel alien in the buzzing crowd. There was a certain shine to their eyes, a pitch to their laughter and excited chatter. So effortless in their easy joy. So oblivious to his vigil. He wondered if Violet’s presence would make him feel less distanced from these happy people. As his eyes continued their journey across strange faces, they snagged on a forlorn figure. She was standing in the far corner of the sweeping staircase, arms crossed, eyes blank. Next to her, a bear of a man, on the phone, gesturing agitatedly. Not the only alien here, at least.

The crowd began to thin, and he could hear the speakers crackle into action. If the patrons could make their way to their seats please, the show was about to start.  Right, that was that then. 

The play was Romeo and Juliet, of all things. Had Violet come it might have rekindled fiery discussions about the nature of love and how far devotion goes. The kind of discussion they used to have all the time, his heartfelt optimism clashing with her cynic realist views. Now they didn’t really bother anymore. Maybe once you’d been together for a number of years there just wasn’t anything left to discuss. Maybe you just naturally ran out of things to say to one another. And who knew if even Romeo and Juliet could’ve kept up all that passion over time. 

The production was a good one, at the National Theatre. Rowan had, of course, seen the play before. In fact, it had been one of his and Violet’s first dates back in the day. Another reason why he’d bought the tickets on a whim. By the time it rang for the interval, he was at least distracted somewhat from his earlier morose thoughts. 

He made his way to the bar and ordered a vodka martini. ‘No olive, please’ he asked as he fingered his tie. He sensed someone sitting down a couple of stools down from him. The barman served his drink, and an identical one a little further down the bar. Rowan glanced over, recognising the woman from earlier. She noticed him looking at her oliveless martini. ‘I prefer my snacks and alcohol separate.’ she explained almost impatiently. ‘Oh… Yeah me too.’ he said gesturing at his own drink. She smiled humourlessly and turned her attention back to her martini. She took a sip, and glanced over, focusing on his tie. ‘Nice tie’. It wasn’t. It was one of those ghastly nineties revival patterns. Like an abstract watercolour threw up on a piece of shiny satin. Violet and Rowan had seen it at Woolworths and joked about buying it. He’d thought it might make her smile. He shook his head and smiled. ’It’s not, but thanks.’ ‘No seriously, I like it. Shows some bloody character. I’ve looked at enough sterile business suits to last me a lifetime.’ She laughs, suddenly self-conscious. ’Sorry.’ Beat. ‘It’s just… my husband. He wears them a lot. Suits I mean. And his friends. Or colleagues, or whatever.’ Rowan smiled. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right person. Nothing as stylish as that has ever even got within two meters of me.’  ‘And let’s hope it never does.’ She raised her glass in cheers.  He sipped. ‘So, you enjoying the play?’ ‘Yeah, I guess. It’s pretty good. Seen it before, but I like what they’ve done with it.’  ‘Mhmh, actors are doing a decent job. ‘  ‘Although Juliet is maybe a bit breathy for my taste.’ ‘ Oh, I don’t mind that so much. A young girl in love…’  ‘Ha, because all women turn into breathy messes in the throes of true love? Please.’

As they talked Rowan watched the woman surreptitiously. She was not so much mousy as the kind of woman you had to appreciate up close. To notice how her soft brown locks brushed her cheeks. To see a blush give life to her pale skin as she got animated. If she’d been blonde you’d have called her an English rose type of gal. As it was, she was bound to fade into the background next to pushier types of beauty. 

'I'm Rosalind, by the way. Friends call me Rose.' She moved to sit on the stool next to his and offered her hand. ‘And what a fitting name indeed. I’m Rowan.’ He took the offered hand and squeezed lightly. She lifted her eyebrows at his attempted flattery. ’And yours too! So tree-like.’ ‘Why thank you. Strong and steady, that’s what they call me.’ He grinned. ‘Give me that over pretty and pretentious anytime.’ ‘Sure? And trade in the spectacularly handsome view?’ She ignored the question. ‘So what brought you here tonight? Watching the romance of all romances?’ He ruffled his hair, uncomfortable. ‘Well. I guess I…’  ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to pry’ ‘No, no, it’s nothing really. I bought the tickets as a surprise for my girlfriend. Violet. Only she already had plans. Girls night. Unlucky, I guess.’ ‘Must be some girls night.’ He felt guilty, making Violet sound bad ‘No, I mean… She’s good at being organised. Great actually. She makes plans and doesn’t like to change them, doesn’t like to be unreliable. Admirable, really.’ Rose lifted an eyebrow. ‘No offence to Violet, but… there’s being reliable and then there’s treating the one you’re supposed to love like shit.’ Rowan didn’t know what to say. Rose went on, unabashed. ‘I mean here you are, supposedly committed to one another. Loving one another, cherishing one another. Except all you get is a few hours over dinner every night listening to phone calls about some bloody business or another. Or a fecking night out at the theatre sat on your own because more fecking phone calls have to be made and someone couldn’t give a flying fuck about romance anyway. Is that what you call love? Is it?!’ Previously lost in her tirade, Rose looked up then and caught Rowan’s eye, her cheeks flushed. She realised her outburst and looked down self-consciously, fiddling with the hem of her floral dress.  ‘Sorry, I…’ ‘… I guess we’re not really talking about Violet anymore?’ ‘No, yes, I mean… Not specifically, no. But it sounds pretty darn close. My husband. He’s very dedicated to his work. Can’t let the company down, etc etc. needs to be reliable, la la la, always on call. We’ve not had an uninterrupted date night in…’ She threw up her hands ‘God, I don’t even know how long!’ ‘Sounds frustrating’ ‘You think? Bloody infuriating is what it is. Although…’ Her eyes regained their earlier forlorn look ‘…I’m not sure I even feel much of anything about the whole thing anymore. Guess humans get used to anything eventually.’ ‘And that’s a good thing?’ ‘Well I don’t know about good. But definitely easier than the alternative.’ ‘So that’s what we have to look forward to? That a difficult relationship will eventually stop being hard work and become tolerable? That if we only stick it out long enough we’ll get used to it?’ She smiled sadly and both say silent for a moment, lost in their own thoughts.  He sat up straight. ‘No!’ She raised her head ‘No?’ ‘No. I refuse to believe that that’s what we’re reduced to. Waiting for unpleasantness to become so routine it becomes bearable; to look forward to the day we stop caring. Where’s the romance, where’s the fire in that! If that’s all there is… what’s there to live for?’ ‘And yet here you are, waiting for a woman who was probably never going to show up in the first place.’ He sighed. ‘Yes, I am. Strong and steady, remember?’ She smiled. ‘I still have hope you know. I’m still not over that dream of love so bone deep it’ll survive even the dreariest nonsense.’ ‘Romeo and Juliet, hey?’ He laughed loudly, genuinely. ‘Right. Maybe not the most hopeful example to hang onto… But yes.’ He took her hand impulsively. ‘I’ve always thought… There’s ideals. There’s love. True love. I’ve not given up on that yet.’ ‘…No, me neither’  Their eyes met, both smiling.  He stroked her hand with his thumb, then let go. ‘Do you think we’re foolish?’ ‘For hanging onto hope? Maybe…’ ‘And for staying in hopeless relationships, regardless?’ ‘Maybe we’re secretly cynics after all.’ ‘Or just too scared to take risks anymore?’  She replied quietly. ‘And that too.’ They hold each other’s gaze and her face grew warm. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and was interrupted by the interval bell and crackling speaker.

She broke their gaze and laughed, embarrassed. ‘Better get to the end of this tragedy then’ ‘Yeah, I guess we’d better.’ ‘Yeah’ ‘Yeah’ ‘… Yeah’

They’d both risen from their seats and were standing across from each other, suddenly unsure, their earlier ease turned to heart-thumping nerves. Rowan tried to catch Rose’s eye again but she’d withdrawn back into herself.  An usher approached. ‘Sir, ma’am, if you could please make your way back to your seats? We’re about to close the doors.’

Rose grabbed her bag distractedly and started moving towards one of the doors to the auditorium. ‘Yes, of course, sorry.’ She looked back at Rowan, who was still stood at the bar. He gestured in the opposite direction and shrugged, an apologetic smile on his face. ‘I’m this way.’  ‘Oh right…’ Their eyes met again. ‘Well, enjoy the rest of the show.’ ‘Yes, you too.’ Rowan, made as if to say something, but she’d already turned around and walked towards the door. With one last lingering gaze, Rowan smiled ruefully and turned away, slowly making his way back to his seat.

[burningbiro]

An ode to home

I’ve never been one for homesickness. Even as a kid. Everything I was doing away from home was always way too exciting to think about the things that weren’t there. I used to get slightly-on-edge texts and emails from my mother, urging me to give a tiny peep. Let them know I’m alive. Once she even sent a fax. At which point I’d be surprised how long it’d already been, and feel slightly guilty that I hadn’t thought of home before. 

Now I’m on my first big big trip, the furthest and longest I’ve ever been away from home. And I’m finally getting a taste of what it means to be homesick. Even though my days are packed with excitement and new discoveries, I feel an odd tugging sensation at times. I feel myself getting teary at the thought of home and wishing they’d make teleportation possible already. Longing for a proper cuppa and people who say sorry all the time.

I think of James, and the effortless random shit we get up to. Ordering enough Chinese to feed an army and watching mindless telly all day while moaning about our hangovers. I think of Zoe and Anna, my lovely housemates and our walks in the park on frosty Sunday mornings. Our all-day pub lunches and Carly Rae Jepson dancing sessions. Their delicious baked goods to come home to. I think of Hannah and Manu and Ash and midweek dinners at Pizza East. Of evil humour, lovely chats and hugs and sleepovers. Of early morning solidarity at work. I think of sexy Swiss Ben, the most beautiful heart and body ever combined in one person.  I think of my beautiful Sonia, her bottomless snacks and endless wisdom over wine. Her big heart and open door, our crazy days together. I think of my mom, her eternally comforting hugs, her never-ending optimism and belief that I can do anything. He infectious giggle. My gran with her bone-deep understanding of how the world works, our hourlong breakfasts together. I think of my bestie Lina, her infectious laugh and our days spent in bed together, chatting. Of how wonderfully easy and comfortable it is to be together. 

I think of home, and it’s like a warm embrace on a chilly day. Even though I’m so far away, I’ve never been more acutely aware of how gob-smackingly amazing the people in my life are. And while these lines are clearly too limited to contain all of you, you know who you are, you wonderful bunch of lunatics. Thanks for being the way you are. Thanks for making me realise that I’ve not just got the great unknown to be excited about. Eventually, I’ll get to go home. To all of you. And that’s probably most exciting of all.

[burningbiro]

Notes from a rested mind

Life is simple. The things we need and make us happy are extraordinarily mundane. Life is simple, and yet we get caught up in so much unnecessary noise, so much convoluted blablabla. Once we lose the simplicity of childhood, our overzealous brain takes over with its overanalysing, rationalising, calculating, doubting and self-deprecating. Making life so much more complicated than it needs to be. Filling our bellies with feelings that are even less comfortable for ourselves than they are for the ones around us. Frustration, envy, spite, irritation. And all those jolly fellas. We forget the things that really make us happy, and instead seek hard, fast pleasures that make us feel good for a short while - and pretty empty afterwards. Right now, I'm sitting on a perfectly ordinary terrace in a little town in Northern Australia. The air is balmy on my skin, the sun is kissing lush palm leaves in front of a stunning sky, and Bonobo is wrapping everything in its bassy tones. Life is good, and I don't even own a smartphone. The things that bring joy to our lives are seldom big and booming, and much more often little and quiet. The brush of a friend's hand on your shoulder as they walk past, the twinkle between eyes as you share a joke. Hearing someone's life story and the things they burn for over a chilled beer. What's more exulting than feeling someone's lust for life and getting to share it with them? Feck the small talk and the unbearably uninteresting conversations you've had a million times before.  Life is simple but nothing is harder than holding onto that knowledge. We get caught up in the current of stressy energy surrounding our jobs, our debts, our ambitions. We let our brain take the lead with its suspicious behaviour. Because surely it cannot be that simple? Surely there are ulterior motives. Surely there's some sort of catch. But there isn't. Life really is that awesome, if you let it.

[burningbiro]

The rude phonetic alphabet

It's that moment you're on the phone to another delightful customer services person and asked to give your postcode: E3 2PY. Thank goodness for ye olde Alpha Bravo Charlie. Or so you'd think. Why is it that every time I try to conjure the correct phonetic word, ALL I can think of is PENIS?

A for anal B for boobs C for cunt D for dildo E for ejaculate F for Fuck G for g-spot H for hump I for incest J for jizz K for knockers L for labia M for minge N for nipples O for orgasm P for penis Q for queef R for rectum S for schlong T for tits U for uterus V for vagina W for wank Y for yodel* X for x-rated Z for zazzle*

*Apparently yodel is another term for cunnilingus, and zazzle means lust or horniness.

Big thanks to the sex dictionary for making this possible.

[burningbiro]

Curriculum vi-meh

Published in Can't Understand New Technology, June 2013

A CV is a simple thing. A page or two; name, date of birth, education, experience: the basic framework of your life. Simple enough, one should think. Especially for our digitally native youth. They’ve grown up knowing and mastering fancy shindigs of altogether different proportions. Twitter, tumblr, Facebook, Flickr, Pinterest, cargo, indexhibit. A bit of CSS here and some jquery there. Look at my parallax site or this case video here. Surprising, then, how something as simple as a CV can make our youngsters stumble so very dramatically.

I run the creative intern programme at LBi, so I get a whole lot of applications each week. But it’s been YONKS since I’ve gotten a decent CV. The number of completely unformatted word docs listing every bar and dishwasher job since kindergarten frankly baffles me. The people who’ve got the entire Adobe Creative Suite up their sleeve and a dozen inspiration blogs up the other can’t even seem to remember what a pdf is, let alone self-editing. Once I even got a CV that was written in TextEdit (seriously, why bother)! Sometimes I wonder whether these guys remember that they’re applying for creative positions and that, obviously, everything counts.

A CV is a small thing, but getting a small thing wrong can make the most disproportionally bad impression. Neglecting the basics gives people the feeling that you’re too lazy to do the groundwork or, even worse, too stupid to know that it matters. Because the truth of the matter is that I do look at a person’s CV. I’m interested to see where they’ve come from and what got them to this point. So a beautifully designed and to the point CV ticks just the right boxes, because it shows they took the time to think about it, and do it properly.

Are CVs out-dated? Maybe, but then only in their one-page word-document snoozefest form. Maybe the term just carries with it an image of secretaries attesting to their shorthand skills and dusty folders rotting away in filing cabinets. But who says a slightly geriatric format like the CV can’t grow with the times? Give the dusty CV a facelift and make it both informative AND snazzy. Go crazy and do yours in landscape format (OMG), build a CV Twitter account or compose a catchy tune. You’re a digital native and it’s your life for Christ’s sake! If you’re going to take pride in something, do it with your CV.

[burningbiro]

A call for Appendectomies

Published in Can't Understand New Technology, February 2013

Whether it be in technology, advertising or design – the best new things are usually those that are born from human truths: insights into people’s behaviours, their lives, their needs. The most delicious insights are usually those that are so obvious it hurts.

Take-away coffee lids made spill-free drinking possible when people stopped sitting down for coffee and started running about all day. Rubbers on the back of pencils addressed never having that bloody rubber when you need it. Voicemail emerged when people stopped being at home all day, and later being too busy to even answer their mobile.

Unfortunately, it feels like the more we move forward with technology, the more we step back from insight and actual usefulness. There is such an overload of products on the market – both physical and digital – that I have to ask myself: who actually needs all this stuff?

Not everything has to be useful in the most archaic sense of the word. But surely we should be able answer this: Why the hell would I want to use this? What does it do that other things in my life don’t?

And this is where I come to my latest pet useless thing the world didn’t need: The Ipad Mini. The Ipad Mini is like the appendix. In its original form it used to be kind of a good idea, but now its just full of shit and potentially very painful.

It’s probably not farfetched to say that the people buying an Ipad Mini will be those Apple-fiends that already have an Iphone and an Ipad. So, what niche does the Ipad Mini fill for them? That time when an Iphone is just a little too small, and an Ipad a little too big? Those times when an Ipad is actually quite HEAVY to hold? Or all those times when you wish you could look a LITTLE less ridiculous taking a photo with your Ipad, but still want to look COOL as an owner of new technology? Maybe you have that one handbag the Ipad just doesn’t fit into, or cannot BEAR your Iphone rattling around in your clutch.

Please, PLEASE world, can we stop making technological appendixes? There is enough STUFF in the world; we don’t need to be adding to the pile without any real thought behind it. Because when there is thought, things can be so awesome.

Thanks (and apologies).

[burningbiro]

A thought.

Bubbles are air smothered in water.

Discontent is ambition smothered by routine.

[burningbiro]

A morning with James Brown

I feel good! James Brown smatters Bloody loudly too He’s feeling the groove. My ears are full of unwanted noise.

And he can only sing one bloody verse, annoyingly on repeat, and then there’s more more laptop speaker Smattering.

He’s there (in my ears) because my phone wandered out of my bag, onto some lawn in the park all on its own.

And it didn’t come back No! Decided to stay there Go on a little trip abroad, (I mean who doesn’t need a holiday?) the cheeky thing.

So instead of the gentle crescendo of harps and smooth beats (the alarm clock of angels) I have James Brown in bed with me.

James Brown who lives in an obscure online alarm clock that won’t snooze or do anything but smatter Bloody loudly.

How is one supposed to sleep with this noise assaulting the ears? I need my snoozes (at least three) and frankly It’s just rude.

Bloody phone Bloody James We’ll see who feels good now when I get up and turn you bloody off.

[burningbiro]

A reform of romanticism

Most people are secret romantics. It comes from the stories we’re exposed to most of our lives. The films, the books, the happy-ever-afters. We get used to a certain way love rolls out in a plotline. We get taught that there is ‘the right person’ out there waiting for each of us. That we only need to search hard enough to make love last forever. ‘When you know, then you know.’

And in a way, it feels great. It gives you hope. It makes it worth the wait. Worth all those less-than-ideal, excruciatingly mediocre love scenarios that have come before. And that’s a good thing. Hope is a good thing. It’s like the Aloe Vera of the emotional world.

Then we do find something worth the wait. And it’s fantastic. There’s fireworks, and amazing sex, and gazing-into-the eyes. You’re happy, euphoric even. Mediocrity has finally been kicked in its very flat backside.

Then, after many nights of raunchy sex, romantic dinners, sofa-cuddles, gallery Sundays and stargazing summer nights, it ends. It ends and you’re devastated. Your inner romantic feels cheated. What the hell! What happened to ‘When you know then you know’, what happened to forever?

The thing is, we tend to forget one thing. Change. We change, situations change, things change. It’s inevitable. And sometimes two people just don’t change in tandem; sometimes change means that fireworks fizzle out, or that we end up wanting different types of fireworks. That does not negate anything that came before the change. The fireworks were still awesome, the sex still mind-blowing, and the eye-gazing giddying.

So, I vote for a change of focus. A reform of romanticism. Lets stop trying to find the love of our life, and start focusing on the love of our now. Because who knows what will happen. Maybe now will last forever. Maybe now will last only a few months. But it doesn’t matter. Because love is love and it feels amazing regardless how long it lasts.

[burningbiro]

What the heart gets up to when you're not looking

The heart is a weird one. Hanging around your chest area, pumping blood through your body, delivering all that vital oxygen. Day and night, without fail. It’s astonishing that it has time for anything else really. But, unsurprisingly, our heart is a multi-tasker. (Perhaps that’s why girls are often a lot more in touch with this particular part of their bodies. Or so you’d think, anyway.) So it sits there… feigning innocence, while all the while soaking up impressions, reactions and experiences. Creating a register of different people you meet and spend time with, inconspicuously tucking them away in different corners. And in many cases, that’s all fine. It all makes sense. You’re pretty much aware of what’s going on.

But see, it’s a sneaky little thing. The heart is great at putting up a front, of hiding things from you. It potters about, while you’re busy with other things and stupidly assume that all it’s doing is pumping blood around. Until suddenly you find that the place in your heart where you THOUGHT someone was living is not their address at all. No, your heart has relocated them somewhere completely different and done this without so much as consulting you. The cheek of it!

And rather than communicating this to you like an adult, it leaves you in the dark for frickin’ ages. It lets the rest of your body do all the dirty work. Like the colour in your cheeks, which will suddenly get overactive in the presence of said person. Or your skin, which will get all goosebumpy. And your general gut area, which will start to feel all woozy. And then maybe eventually your stupid brain will catch on and realise that something here is really not right. Realise that your heart has only gone and bloody relocated this stupid person that you didn’t even want living there. But now they’re all settled and moving them back seems nigh impossible. They’ve even put up bloody curtains in the windows. (I hate curtains!)

At closer inspection of your heart you'll realise that nothing is quite what you thought. Slowly but surely everything has shifted around, and what you thought you wanted is not really that high up on the list anymore. Instead you want silly irrational things that are no use to you at all and will not further your career or get you where you want to be. And you think, damn… how the hell did this happen?!

So there you go. The heart. It’s a tricky bugger. Make sure you pay attention to it. Because it has a mind of its own. And if you’re not careful, it may well hit you over the head with a frying pan. Or some curtains. And that’s more disorientating than you might think.

[burningbiro]

A confession...

I have a confession to make: I am obsessed with chin definition. Ask any of my friends, I am. It's kinda embarrassing.

Whenever I meet a guy, my eyes shoot straight to his chin. Not the arms, the butt or the smile, no. The chin. It’s tragic, but what can I say.

It’s become one of those things that I can’t help but NOT notice about people. There’s just something about a badly defined chin that really rubs me the wrong way. Yes, it may be horrible and chin-ist, but I just cannot find it attractive.

You may be thinking that I’m alluding towards the oh-so-famous, and also not particularly hawt, double (triple/quadruple) chin. But that’s not it at all. Yes, fair enough, I don’t love a double chin, but they’re not the worst of it. It’s not so much chin fat I object to, but lack of willingness of the chin and neck to stick to the right places.

See, chins and necks are meant to curve along and meet at some point in the middle at something like a 40 % angle. They are NOT meant to be one. It’s just not cool for the neck to take a short cut and arrive unceremoniously somewhere at the front of the chin. Why not? – Well, for one thing, it just looks shite. But it’s also clearly not the way it’s intended, and it creates a lot more neck than is necessary. At the expense of the chin! You could say the neck is being a bit of a tyrant. And tyranny is never cool.

Tell you who has excellent chin definition though: Keira Knightly. There may not be much else I like about her (well, she’s also kinda beautiful, cow), but I give her that. Her chin definition is impeccable.

If only I could say I’m innocent of bad chin definition. Unfortunately, I am not.  I don’t have a great chin, and that saddens me. So maybe it’s overcompensation that is causing this strange obsession of mine. I’m searching in other people the chin definition I never had.

Maybe one day I can look past people’s chins and recognise the things that really matter. Maybe, or maybe not. Meanwhile, chin up.

[burningbiro]

Brits and their weather – a love story

“Hiya, alright?” “Yeah, you?” "Yeah good, weather’s crap isn’t it?” “Tell me about it!”

Brits are great at small talk, idle chitchat and being polite. Though how often we actually give a sh** is questionable. (No, I don’t want to hear about your sickeningly romantic mini-break and I certainly DO NOT care about your infected toenail and where that went – THANKS)

The secret to small talk is simple. Stay superficial. Don’t let things get too personal, don’t go into detail and AVOID CONFLICT AT ALL COST.

Prime example: the weather. People LOVE talking about the weather. It’s not going to offend anyone, it’s easily verified (just look out the bloody window) and it’s not going to set anyone’s intellectual world on fire. If you think about it, weather as a topic of conversation is quite baffling. From conversations about yesterday’s weather (“Yes I was there too, thanks”), over today’s weather (“Oh really, I barely noticed the torrential rain!”) to holiday weather (“Oh how interesting, they have weather too?!”). It’s all a bit vacuous, to the point that you think: why do we waste any breath on it at all?

The answer is that it’s comforting. It’s a foolproof common ground. You can bitch about the weather without coming across like a complete cow; you can let off steam and people will steam with you. Hating UK weather and loving it elsewhere is socially acceptable. FACT.

The UK’s sh** climate basically saves us from our own social incompetence. It’s there when you need a buffer, or two seconds to think of something wittier to say. It has your back when you want to lead your intrusive relatives away from your love life. And it saves your a** when you can’t for the life of you remember if you have spoken to that person before.

So there you have it. Weather chat is like your underwear: you barely think about it, but it keeps you comfortable and without it, life could be pretty messy.