the last party

person in
pink poncho
plays piano

flaw

It is called 'relaxing' or 'taking time out for yourself' but I think it feels more like 'being alone'.

I like to be busy. If I'm not busy I get bored and unhappy. I don't often enjoy 'relaxing' because I have an inability to live in the present and constantly think about what is coming next. When I 'relax' my brain floats ahead of time and I end up feeling isolated from the people around me. Being busy and focusing on a task means I can find connections with the task and the other people involved.

ask and you shall receive

It has always been my dream to own an amazing herbal tea range. But I am poor and pretty teas are outrageously expensive ($4.00 plus for twenty tea bags, that's 20c a teabag).

I get excited when I go to other people's houses and they have pro/many tea flavours. I shamelessly abuse these opportunities. Once I was at Sarah's house and downed about eight consecutive cups of tea, all different flavours.


Whenever people ask me what I want for my birthday/Christmas etc. I always either need lame practical things which are no fun to give as presents, or else desire expensive things which you can't just go asking for because most other people are skint too. So I just say I don't want anything.

But this year I hit the money. I asked for tea and got eight different flavours plus a set of teacups in my favourite colour (red). YES.

Cranberry, Raspberry and Elderflower.

Wildberry (Blackberry, Raspberry and Blueberry).

Green Tea with Citrus.

Cranberry and Apple.

Honey and Lemon.

Chamomile.

Cranberry, Raspberry and Strawberry.

Lemon and Ginger.

I feel like life is looking upwards.

jack's house

My room hasn’t always felt this way. I used to sit in here most days and make friends with the holes in the walls and floor. Often I’d put my feet in the watery gaps. I liked the sound it made: hollow sound somewhere between a shatter and a pop. My eyelashes found the sun reaching through the weatherboards. I was too happy to anticipate raindrops leaking through the roof. 

Today the room bears a strange colour. It is full of light which you can’t even be sure is light because it might just be your eyes trying to improve what they see. You can’t trust yourself a lot of the time.

The sky is looming. A big smoking void giving me head rush. It jolts – shunt shunt shunt – the sky collects me up and takes my mind on field trips into space. My brain shreds itself and denies that it is a part of my body. I am encouraged to find a place in which to occupy myself until consciousness returns. I do my head in if I think too much. I try not to think too much but you know what it is like; if you try not to think about something that is all you can think about.

My mind is a small child. It likes to run away. Sometimes it meanders too far from its maternal body and is lost for a short time until a kind adult returns my child back to me. Some kids go missing permanently and their faces end up stacked vertically in newspaper pages.  Candy is helpful for luring lost children. Little colourful candies. Some are round, some are long and thin. They all taste horrible but look very nice.

The left side of the room does not look very nice. The entire wall is burnt out. You can still see all the exposed wires and beams: the house’s bones sticking out of its scorched skin. It’s strange seeing flesh which is not the colour it is supposed to be. It doesn’t feel nice to be seeing the insides of something when they are supposed to be contained.

You can take a look around if you like. I don’t mind. This is my bed, over here. And there’s where I sit sometimes.

Yesterday I had a visitor while I was sitting there. I was inspecting what used to be a window. They’ve put black lines on it now. I used to do stained glass art. You frame each colour in a black outline. That’s what they’ve put on the window except there’s no coloured glass. Although sometimes if I tilt my head the right way I’m pretty sure I can see colours. Maybe it’s just a trick of this strange, faded light.
 

I can go up the window. I can touch it and trace the black outline with my sight. I can breathe ice onto the window and write shapes in it. I can spell out some words and write SOS messages to the dogs yapping on the dried yellow lawn.

There’s an apple tree out there too. I think I’m supposed eat the fruit so that I stay healthy. But they won’t let us outside. If you don’t eat the fruit they get angry at you fi you go outside they get angry at you because you will catch a cold. Anyway, apples aren’t very good for you. Did you hear what happened to Snow White? Except she woke up again. I probably wouldn’t wake up again if I ate the apple. And Eve. She had a bad apple experience too. They’re deceiving, apples are., they’re like the candy. They look good but they are not. But people will try and tell you they are good so they can trick you into going outside to retrieve one. They just want you to catch a cold.

You’re being silly, she said. Eat – it.

After you have eaten you are supposed to get ready for bed. I think I used to like sleeping but because of all these holes in the wall now it's not very pleasant. When I'm trying to sleep I can hear the rain  scratching incessantly on the surfaces outside. The sound is awful. It rots away my head until my sheets are bleeding. Tonight it is very bad. It's coming from both sides of the room and gets worse and worse and there is wind too and then tapping tap tap tap tap which starts quiet and gets louder and closer. The wind howls over the scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch –

Oh... It’s stopped now. That's better.

But it is still difficult to sleep. Almost more so in silence. I’m not really sure what to do in here sometimes. I’m just waiting I think. Waiting for the weather to get better. And for the tree to bear good fruit. It takes a few years. You don’t get good fruit straight away when you first plant a tree.

all you need is love

The other day in class my sweat made a heart shape.

 

Weird/gross/interesting.

I don't often tell lies

Lie:

 

Truth:

I am convincing myself it will be fun but
I am worried it will be disappointing.
I find it difficult to go back there.
I do not live in the same space that I did two years ago.
I don't like time traveling.

I don't have the capacity to re-adapt.

I hope this ends up not being a lie.

note to self

starting line

two steps forward
and one step backwards
is still moving forward -
right?

52 grams of sugar

Everyone is wearing beautiful mirrors over their face. My reflection is everywhere! Grand. I'm so ravenous for conversation. I am pretty self-concerned. I can talk to myself. Why, yes, I do have a birthday wish-list actually. How good of you to ask. I would like an encyclopaedia of myself. Alphabetically ordered and excruciatingly detailed. Indexes, references, the whole shebang. Hold the wrapping paper. I do not want a pouffy ribbon. I already have a pouffy dress.

I have to carry my body in a sack behind my brain. If it is a silk sack (hand sewn) then I will require a different colour for each day of the week, please, thank you. Sense! I have enough to contend with: people, performance. Oh God, I can't do it I MUST DO IT I can't do this anymore I DON'T WANT TO DO ANYTHING ELSE! I need to make and I need to talk and I need to make and talk and if I can't do these things right now something bad is happening in me. Health professionals advise against this lifestyle but mostly I am a little masochistic about it. My pampered body can’t accommodate and life starts biting at the ankles. I have had a bad taste in my mouth for about five weeks and echinacea tea wont cure it. Unfortunate.

Expand my head. My gut ingests too few criticisms. My brain is an over-filled balloon in danger of bursting. Good. A dismal person needs a healthy stab. Pins at the ready, people! I'm fairly sure they used to try to cure diseases by 'bleeding' people out. I don't get squeamish over blood but I do feel nauseous at the thought of dirty/rusty knives. Sometimes I feel nauseous for no reason. No I am not a hypochondriac. I have funny wrists. They get sore if I sit on them. School is so secure and sickening.

Do nothing while I lift off my fingernails. I am doing this very, very quietly so maybe you are confused and think it's an illusion. It's not too painful. Today I was far too loud. Generally I am too quiet. My loudest gestures are towards mouths but not with my own mouth. Actually I don't even have a mouth, sorry for lying. I just forgot temporarily, see. My brain is shunted to second place for its rationalizing.

I would ideally like to spend several hours throwing ideas into my own head from yours. Don’t often find people with whom I am fluid. I imagine lack of conversation results in my brain cells eating each other. Nutritious? Maybe. I have eaten a lot of carrots lately in the hope of seeing better. Inability to write straight. I must dance better than I talk. I must definitely dance more than I dream.

Two days. I need them to last and I need them to pass NOW.

All over the place. I am all over the place and twelve weeks old. Of course in the stars I am well balanced which is secretly code for juxtaposed extremes and all of that. You must always follow a recipe exactly so scales are a wise investment. I just want to be always awake. Always. I will make friends with a hedgehog and wear plastic gloves in case of prickles.

the advice panel

the thought counts

I get nervous

when people

ask me how I am

because I either have to

lie

or

go into lengthy detail

which is

selfish

and

results in

apathy

or

false concern

or

genuine concern but complete incomprehension

(in order of
terribleness)

or what

if

at that moment I

am well -

will they

accuse me of

falseness the

other times they have asked?

I get nervous.



over-stay

In this place, you are able to do anything.
Dyslexic people can write gramatically correct, well-spelt messages.
Boys can hang out in the girls' change room for one hour or more.
Dancers can be painters, writers, photographers, singers, musicians, film-makers, actors, philosophers.

But in this place we can do nothing
  because we are bound by fear.
In this place we are only out for ourselves.
We are with only ourselves.

cranberry juice: friend or foe?

overheard

"There's a storm coming the size of Australia" she says, and smiles. "The whole country's going to blow away. Well, not away but we're going to be flooded out. There won't be any land visible above water anymore. All these nice houses and churches and schools and parliament buildings are gonna be like soggy crackers. That's it. No more New Zealand. The end. Buh-bye."

She smiles even bigger, so that her crooked teeth jut out.

"And best of all, no more people. Except for the ones that can afford sailing boats." She sticks out her bottom lip.

"That's a bit shit," he says. I tell you what, her pretty little smile slides right off her face then.

"What do you mean?" she pouts.

"Well it's those bastards that deserve to be flooded out the most, don't you think?"

"For your information, you jerk, my family owns a yacht."

His eyes look heavier all of a sudden.

"Exactly," he says. "That's exactly what I mean."

"Fuck you," she squints. "I would have let you on our boat but now you've gone and blown it. We had a spare life jacket and everything. But seeing as you're being a real jerk about it, I'll wave to you when I'm sitting up in the crow's nest and you're floating about like a shitty piece of seaweed."

He frowns a little. "I can swim alright anyway lady." He is facing square on to her. His body is a perfect straight line against her foul, crooked mouth.

"Look," he says, "if you come around to my house sometime I'll show you all my swimming trophies. Like I've got a whole cabinet full of them and medals too. My whole bedroom wall on one side, completely covered in medals from these swimming races I won. I'm telling you the honest truth. I can swim." His eyebrows venture up his forehead.

"Yeah well there's no time for that is there?" she says smartly. "Cuz soon - in a couple of hours - all your damn medals and trophies are gonna be floating around like some badly shaped fish and some poor whale is gonna get your stupid medal stuck in it's blow hole or something and gonna cark it right there in the ocean that wasn't even an ocean before but just some air above New Zealand. Don't you get it? I said, we're all gonna get flooded out. That means you don't own any trophies or medals. You don't own anything. It's all just deep sea treasure and so are your bones unless you find yourself a boat."

She looks at him for a bit. Reaches out and shoves his shoulder a bit. Not too hard though.

"Or, if you stop being so frikken smart and maybe I'll dig out that extra life jacket for you."

He just looks at her. He thinks about his trophies blocking up some filthy sewerage pipe at the bottom of the ocean. All the yellow gunk accumulating until the pressure builds up and the drain vomits out shit everywhere into the sea.

"I told you. For shit's sake. I can swim real good."

He walks away from her to the window. He opens it up and puts it on the widest catch. He unlocks the door and opens that out wide too. He takes off his shirt and puts it on the floor and sits down on it. Pulls his knees up to his bare chest and locks his hands together around his legs. His body isn't straight anymore. It's crooked like her teeth. He looks up at her from his small shape and holds onto his own hands tighter.

"Now piss off eh."

day five

I am beginning to have a fear of being in my own room. I don't like the familiarity of it.

Actually I think my real fear is that if I'm in my room for too long I won't be able to leave it again. To stop this from happening I try to get out of my house and be in other places but then I feel like I am in those places without a purpose and that people are looking at me wondering what I am doing there. 

I'm gradually resenting everything that is familiar.

Places.
People.
Words.
Routines.
Clothes.
Songs.
But I'm afraid of everything that is unfamiliar.  So I don't know where that leaves me.



number five hundred

my bedroom walls
are beginning to look the same as
my friend's lounge
is beginning to look the same as
the studio
looks the same as
the inside of my car
looks the same as
the bridge by my house
is the same as
queen street
is the same as
the motorway
is the same as
the view from the top of mount eden
which is the same as
an aeroplane landing in wellington
the same as
peeking through wooden structures
the same as
sitting in a frequented cafe
same as
the insides of my oven
same as
the drawer in my dresser
same as
my spine on the floor
air cutting my eyeballs
not seeing except for fatigue
constantly buried in the same spaces

psuedo-rescuer

"The world is round and rotates on a common axis. As such, if human beings were to realise that all our concerns and needs rotated on the same axis, then the world might be an easier place for so many people who find their daily life a struggle."

- David Teplitzky

She is usually
Tangled behind me
Slipping in my footprints
Crying loudly if I venture ahead without her
She is exactly what he warned me about
I haven't lost her
I have lost younger parts of myself

She never shows up alone
Like all good super heroes she has a sidekick
In flying colours
Nothing like my own
Who is difficult to see sometimes and
I wonder if they are really just
A part of myself which I
Imagined and now have
Lost

One day I will buy some glasses
And a cape
And a large yellow cushion with black markings
Which predict ten days until happiness
But now for now I must save

pens

I like writing. Not just in the lame/artistic/"I like to string words together in fancy arrangements" way. I also get a huge amount of satisfaction from the actual kinaesthetic act of pressing a pen nib into paper. Maybe a little too much satisfaction. This is probably the reason I write large volumes of crap - because I just want to make words, and whatever comes into my head goes straight on a page even if I can't think of anything half decent to say.

So I like writing; I like pens. But I am quite particular. I hate writing with "ugly" pens. Pens which I think make my hand writing look ugly. I can be quite obsessive about the kind of pen I write with.

I like the nib to be quite thin. Even the nib on your standard bic pen is too thick, in my opinion. (Bic pens are one of the most hideous kinds of pens to write with and I avoid this wherever possible.) I also like the actual pen to be relatively thin and cylindrical in shape, no weird knobbly bits or grips or anything. It should be a good colour. Slightly translucent is good (opaque plastic is gross). Metal pens can be good. A small, discreet button for the nib to come out; or better still are the pens which don't even have this but just twist. Inky/fountain type pens are lovely but not good for thin paper. But lovely.

I recently ran out of working pens. My last pen ran out of all its ink. Depressing. I figured the two dollar shop would have some because they generally have a large variety. But they did not. All the pens there were big and bulky and awful. It really was quite disappointing. I was stuck with a black bic for the day. I didn't like it.

I went back the next day and same deal. Ugly pens. More depressing. Figured I'd try the supermarket. The supermarket had a small selection. A few which appealed to me. But they were incredibly expensive. Like seven dollars for two pens. No way can I afford seven dollars for two pens. But I was getting desperate. I almost bought them. Then I remembered how much money I have (not a lot) and decided against it. Hard decision. Felt pretty stink about it. Honestly.

Two dollar shop is still being a bitch. Supermarket is still being expensive. Please. Someone rescue me out of my pen situation. It is dire. Truth.

wrap

in strangers I find
some conversation but it
is rarely enough

2010

there is a lot of empty space inside my atoms
but I am beginning to judge the distance more easily
and it is nice to feel comfortable
within my own particles

but how unfathomable that
that which at first was possible
is no longer because of
what happened between
then and
now

we are becoming smaller;
not less but
more condensed

yet in this strange intimacy
I find confidence

set

Rosa's piece is about weddings. As part of her set she has this huge tiered staircase which sits in the foyer because there is no room in the wings. It makes a very good hiding place to sit inside. It also makes a very good spying place because there are two small holes on each side at the bottom (I assume to make it easier to carry). I felt a little bit bad photographing my classmates without them knowing - especially when I accidentally turned the flash back on and Shani cried out, "Who just took a photo?!" - but I couldn't resist.

Secret.

I think Tracy's dance is exquisite. Sofia carries it exceptionally well. You can tell that Tracy has done fine arts because her aesthetic approach to her work is so strong. Tracy is good at giving direction and is always very clear with her dancers, showing them what she wants things to look like.

Shani always wears a hat when she is running late in the morning (often) and doesn't have time to do her hair. She is one of the most honest people I know. Not as in she never lies but as in she is very much herself and never wears a facade. You can trust her to be frank and say exactly what she is thinking. Her body language explicitly exposes her thoughts. Often this makes her vulnerable and quite comical to observe, so she gets laughed at but I think it is great. You can be sure that when you are looking at Shani you are actually looking at Shani.

Sofia is, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful people I have ever known. She has a certain strange elegance which hovers around her. She is the only person I know who can be cynical in a way which is not depressive (and actually which makes you feel quite warm). She is also the only person I know who can be crude and sexual in a way which is not disgusting or out of taste but rather hilarious and honest. She thinks she has a big bum but she does NOT.

Tracy and Amber are new to our class this year. At first I was worried they would mess up our class's dynamic. But they fit perfectly. They are both very kind hearted and have in-depth thought processes about themselves and their work. Sofia is a credit to both their pieces. Amber has had the speediest recovery from an injury I've ever seen and it because she is so positive and determined.

I love my class but sometimes I feel on the edge because they are all so beautiful and it overwhelms me.

lead poisoning

Everybody should be sketched in pencil. I would carry a giant eraser to edit all the scenes in which I find myself too crowded.

solo

so many dreams sitting inside my head this morning
waking up with a crooked back
arched up
my limbs in the wrong corners of my bed
my pillows piled under my stomach
my sheets draping themselves over my lamp
hoping to catch alight and 5-6-7-8...
I wake with perfectly groomed hair
and perfect vision
I see beyond my bedroom walls;
empty egg cartons
now filled with bodies
which I wish were
faces

lesson three

A stuck tap can flood an entire room in a matter of minutes. One moment you are dry and content and lovely. The next your clothes are transparent and your flesh is melting off your bones.

She is testing sense when she stands at the sink and she knows it, but thirst has convinced her otherwise. She slowly twists the tap clockwise until a few small drips escape. Then she hastily jams the tap back counter-clockwise. She feels her fingertips stretch around the cold metal.

Without adjusting her grip she turns the tap on again. Faster this time. Enough water leaves to fill a small glass - one of those champagne glasses they use at weddings, an ugly 100ml mark near the rim. They monitor your intake, your wallet, your sanity; seemingly contradicting the purpose of drinking in the first place.

With her left hand she rushes to plug the sink before the water can run down the drain. But her right hand still grips the tap. Her knuckles are a little bit yellow - the same colour as the skin which sits underneath the eyes of sick people. Her hand rests on the plug momentarily. Deciding the water is too cold, she pulls out the plug.

The gurgling sound which ricochets through the kitchen is sickening. It reminds her of bodies twisting. Her spine in the morning. The person in the middle of a tug-o-war. Wringing her blanket over and over in her hands. Keep your hand on the tap, she tells herself, and tightens her grip.

She puts the plug back into the sink, twists the tap clockwise and lets go. Her body shifts back a few steps. The knuckles on her right hand flush red as she fans out her fingers, welcoming blood back into the joints. She watches the sink begin to fill.

When the water is halfway up the sides of the sink she lifts her foot over the bench. She clambers awkwardly into the sink and tucks her knees up so she can sit: A small, mountainous island in twenty four centimetres of water. The hair on her body sticks out a little. She is not comfortable. She is not dry or content or lovely, either.

Because she is occupying so much space in the sink it doesn't take long for it to fill. She reaches for the dirty plates behind her and sits them in the sink with her. She balances eight dirty plates, all different sizes, upright between her toes. By shuffling her ankles around she can make little waves with the plates. The water is spilling out over the sides and onto the dirty wooden floor. She dismisses the thought that the wood might rot. She'll deal with that tomorrow.

The water is really rushing over the bench now. There is a layer of liquid on the floor. The water is getting hotter too, as the cylinder heats up. Her flesh is pink-ish and her hair has retreated back into her skin. She doesn't want to be sitting in the water anymore. She is panicking. She thrashes the plates from side to side to shift all the water out. But there is so much of it. The floor has disappeared and instead there is just water. It comes up from the floor and seeps back into the sink. She has to keep making waves and breathing in between each one. The water is near the roof now. There is less and less room for air. The elements are fighting each other above her head.

She recalls a window near the sink - to her left. Her arm searches out, all the while her toes still making plate-waves. Her fingernails find glass, a latch, the outside. The water begins to pour out but there is so much that she is swept out with it. Out through the window, suddenly, with eight plates and eight thousand litres of water. Her spine findng a new twist on the ground.

The concrete outside is much sharper than the smooth metal sink. The plates are in pieces all around her. She lies there for a while because she can feel the sun on her. But her clothes are so drenched that even this feels cold. She is afraid to roll over and stand up in case plates shards find themselves at home in her skin. So she just lies. People walking past can see something is wrong, but have no idea what to make of the scene. They don't want to embarrass themselves. Stopping to help - unsuccessfully - will only expose their ignorance.

dress (for open)

INSTABILITY HAIKU

one thing I'm learning:
nothing's fixed - even
perfectly rehearsed work


DECISION/TRUST HAIKU

another lesson:
that which I know first
is usually right


SIGHT

my eyes are made of honey
I would rather
they stung of sea salt

my eyes refuse to hold
heavy with black

my eyes are not mine
they are borrowed

my eyes can hear

dress (B)

ABSENCE HAIKU

missing body
excess energy
can't trust my own ankles


HAIKU FOR 'PORCELAIN'

unidentified
alien and beautiful
six fragile women


PONCHO HAIKU

plastic embrace
with distant body
soaked but not from rain


NOTES HAIKU

sometimes, my pulse
makes me feel like I'm rocking
even in stillness

dress (A)

aside (placed)
indulging in solitude
the constructed becomes reality
what it was like to be in - before
remembering while out
too tired to change myself
wishing I were awake
so I would have no regrets
only four hours ago we talked, yet
take two requires a new face
in people
I feel worst
and in people
I am my best
such a shame I do not own an umbrella

sharing is caring

repetition

This old cycle again...

Wish I wasn’t female. Again. Feeling betrayed by biology and society and the suburbs and myself. Fearing betraying myself. Keep walking. Notice how easily one foot places itself in front of the other.

I am desperately in need of new shoes. My feet and bad ankles ruin all my shoes. Need to sort out postural habits. Pronto. Knee is very bad lately. Show in three days.

 I am a little bit white.
I am sharp edged.

Starting to feel like I am eleven years old again. The car park lights are out. Everything is déjà vu . There are too many ducks. Too many green bushes. Too many words to read. I can’t even support cancer patients because of animal testing. San Remo canneloni is too small to stuff properly. People don’t hear me because I talk too quietly. My legs are the wrong shape. I forgot to shave the backs of my legs. Gave incorrect directions to a place I visit every day. Chose the wrong jacket and got too hot. I am lacking in fruits and vegetables. Staphylococci are chasing me - they insist on doing this every September. Today the world is a mirror for my head.

Duck asleep in the grass. Why is it so far from the other ducks? Approach duck. Duck wakes. Retreats. Feeling unwanted even by a duck. Sudden urge to cuddle the duck. It is a nice shape. I miss having a cat. Rosa's cat came home. Good. It can sit on its hairy red blanket.

Inspecting Danger 415 Volts. It is very much faded. There is little more than a parasite left. Should invest in some insect repellent.

 

It is much warmer in our house and always is. But I actually prefer the cold. Heat is stifling. I should have locked the door. Our house was empty and open for just over an hour. 

a common occurrence

This is becoming a frequent vision.

the day after

There is hair everywhere
I found some in my tea cup the other day
I found some in my drink bottle cap tonight
There has always been a large abundance of hair on my head
Except for before I was born
There is hair in our shower drain
Hair in the school refrigerator
Hair on my dressing table
Hair in my bed sheets
Hair down the bathroom vanity
Hair hiding in the lights of our manufactured stage
Glistening white on girls who are too busy
And too pretty
Your hair looks nice today, I said
And I meant it
And hair in the corners of our carpet
Hair on runaway animals
Who are having hairy blankets knitted for them
From the hair of other animals
Hair on the floors which are lacking in resin
(Perhaps we will use hair to keep our grip instead)
Hair in a hug I gave today
Hair in hugs I didn’t give
Considering cutting my hair
So I can add to the carpet collection
Or donate it to my friend’s poor cat
Who chased after the number seven
Which is supposed to be lucky
Except now she is minus a cat
Hair commercials on television
Old men are urged to find their hair on the radio
I could tell them where their lost hair is
It is everywhere
There is hair in my mother’s scrap book
Hair stuck to the tape of my astronaut helmet
(Although doubtful if it is actually mine –
The hair, not the helmet)
And hair in borrowed clothes
From people whose clothes I don’t even want to be in –
I don’t even want to be in my own clothes anymore –
Hair in the back of my mind
On the back of my head
My mind sitting in the back of my head,
My mind
There is hair in too many places
And I can’t deal with it.

à la carte

I am the Queen's dinner. I am on her menu. I have seen her insides and I can tell you, they aren't very nice. Most people's insides aren't too nice. But I have definitely seen more attractive insides than hers.

I would like to think I am medium-rare but actually I'm a little over-done. I was brought to the table a-flame. Quite bright and exciting for Her Royal Highness but extinguished very quickly for safety reasons. I burned the Queen's taste buds. The ones right on the end of her dainty little tongue.

I am too small for the plate. There is a lot of empty space around me and not even gravy or vegetables or anything to fill it.

I was served raw. Inappropriately garnished. Eaten with the fork in the left hand; knife in the right. The way you are supposed to eat.

Everyone likes the Queen even if they don't really want to. Even if the Queen doesn't like them. It's nothing personal. There are just a lot of people who like the Queen and not enough time for her to know them all. That's a lie though. She's glad she doesn't have to know them all. People are a bore. She knows herself. She knows the seat of her throne and could tell if you put a pea under the cushion and all that royal crap. She knows how many carats her rings have but not how many of her subjects have hearts (all of them).

I am quite good sustenance. I am bloody nutritious. Medium-rare. I display the heart foundation tick in an appropriate colour. I am disappointingly healthy. I am not ready salted which means you can't taste the fat. Wouldn't you like to enjoy eating something if you are going to feel guilty afterwards anyway?

The Queen can't take care of herself. She requires assistance. Why is the country's matriarch unable to take care of herself? The rest of us are fucked if the Queen needs two hundred and fifty hands.

The Queen can take care of a bad meal though. Two hundred and fifty hands, should a meal displease her. A few fingers will whisk away her plate quick smart and empty the contents down the palace insinkerator. A few others will fetch something more fitting for her to pop inside her quaint little mouth. Something to wash down the over-done, under-seasoned meat.

There might be sixty five fingers waving themselves around the Queen's sweet face at any one time. Fluffing her peripheral. Rearranging her ego.

The Queen throws a fit if she ever takes a bite of her dinner and discovers a piece of bone inside. She despises seeing the bloody packaging hiding shamefully in the rubbish bin. She expects the cut to be perfect. She forgets her dinner once had a pulse.

faux pas

Formal situations are a perfect opportunity to demonstrate one’s knowledge, experience and status. However, mistakes are easily made by those uneducated in the expected standards of behaviour. Poor etiquette prevents many people from achieving social success.

The proper way to enter a function is with the lady's right arm linked through the gentleman's left arm. Do not loiter. This only informs others that you rarely attend such events. The gentleman should help his lady be seated, a manoeuvre you may wish to practice. Treat servicemen impersonally: "Thank you," "No, thank you," or "If you please" in low tones will suffice. When drinking look into your glass rather than allowing your eyes to wander. Eat slowly, quietly and daintily.

Remember, your actions at the table are essential to how others perceive you.

Camera: Kelly Chen
'Fine Diners': Mark Bonnington, Shani Dickins, Joshua Graves, Emma Langdon, Lucy Lynch.

[This film is part of the piece I am choreographing for Unitec's Choreofest 8-11 September (shameless plug - $5 for students, BARGAAAAIN).]