The Piper's Son

‎"And he remembered the water and how warm it felt and one of the guys doing a nudie run along the beach, and then they all stripped down to underwear and in the darkness he knew exactly where to find her, hadn't realised he was looking for her until his hand snaked out and grabbed her, their mouths connecting and tongues taking over while his brain was saying danger danger will robinson."

Sighs. I love this part of the novel. It highlights the failures of men to admit to others what they admit to themselves. Tom will not admit what Tara means and that pisses me off. Yes, they end up friends (or more? :0 ) but he never admits anything. Wish I could elbow a friend so he'd do differently. Poor Candis. Poor me.
Men (correction: manchilds) are impossible to deal with.

Below The Line.

This isn't just a normal youtube video. Using innovative technology it tells a story about you - Amy Miller - and how you ended extreme poverty.

No, Nick Allardice of the Oaktree Foundation. No. All I did was postpone the inevitable. I am not helping, no one is helping. We are headed for a lifetime of not caring and of nothing mattering. We are doing everything for nothing.

We are nothing, we change nothing.

Getting To Know You (Alice Writer)

UNTITLED – Concept Character

I had a twin sister once. Now I don’t. Because of one stupid, drunk driver I am alone. We didn’t look the same but we did have a twin bond. Spending nine months with someone’s leg wrapped around your arm that tends to happen to you.

Exams are important to me. It was so crucial for me to pass, to do really well. So I gave everyone a lecture.
“This is the Glen 20. Use it often, use lots. If you get me sick during Exam Week, I will kill you.

I hurt myself. I have cuts on my legs, scars on my arms. I’ve burnt myself and sliced through my own flesh. I can’t stand blood in movies but I can deal with my own pain and gore. I stabbed myself in the leg with a screwdriver one time.

The first time I was arrested was at a gay rights rally. Someone had attacked one of the gay marchers and it started a fight. Somehow it became my fault and I ended up in the back of a cop car. My parents weren’t impressed but they couldn’t do anything. I got away with everything after the accident.


My parents are good people but they are trying to fill the void. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and someone I’ve never met before is sleeping on the couch. I already live with nine strangers, four cats, seven koi fish, three lizards, a swearing cockatoo and two parents who always let me down.

I took a fourteen year old for an abortion. I’m anti-abortion but I look at it and ask myself “Which consequence could she live with? The baby or the abortion?” So I took her to the clinic and held her while she cried. I walked her from her hospital bed to the bathroom. I read her stories until she fell asleep. I rocked her in my arms like she would never be able to do with her child. I was there for her like no one else could be. I was there when I was needed, not when I felt like it.

I love my boyfriend but I know we have issues. We have a tough relationship but it works for us. We always scream at each other and I even tear his clothes but we are in love. He doesn’t like to talk about the accident and neither do I but he listens when I bring it up. Every time he kisses me I walk away. He’ll be holding me and I’ll look away before he tilts my face towards him and kisses me. I always let him but then I walk off and go somewhere else. I’ll lie on his bed typing letters to my sister and he’ll tell me how much he loves me. He’ll say I’m beautiful, that I mean everything to him. He even worked up the courage to say he loves me. I acted like I couldn’t hear him.

Got a good idea for the name of someone with a dead paternal twin named Alice?

My Ass Is Numb

Yeah, let's go nuts and have a rant. I hate you, Mrs Kaplan. Or Mrs Koplon. YOUR ACCENT SUCKS. I hate you, Mrs Tonizzo. Why do you think I went and did Math in the Senior Centre? Because I hate people. I hate my friends. I hate all of you. You're so young and you keep making mistakes I'm begging you to let me teach you about. Like THAT young teen who is crushing on THAT older person. I hate my stepmum because she won't accept her failings. I hate my stepsister because she is incredibly rude and was being awful when she took over MY room. I hate my other stepsister because she is a snob and always finds fault. I hate everybody. I hate everything. I hate school because I'm actually struggling. I hate my Outdoor Ed and Literature class because those three days put me behind in every class. I hate Yuendumu, the remote Aboriginal community because I CAN FIND A MISSION MAP. I hate being so angry but I'm having such fun. I hate how I hit that kid and then sat him down for a chat and some advice on how to treat women. I hate how I ask questions of people I've never met. I hate myself and I hate my poetry and I hate the whole. Boom de ya dah.

Heritage And Itchy Eyes

This is a blog several days in the making. There is so much more rage and sadness inside and I could go for days without dying but it is consuming to feel this way. I am grateful that Wayne and Rachel have offered me their couch, then Amber has offered her brother's room, then the ski camp and Ben's spare room. How much longer?


On days like today, there is a rage that builds up inside you when everything seems to be wrong. People are rewarded when they have digressed or done something that is right in basics but wrong when aligned to standard. The fire burns behind your eyes, making them itch and burn until you break. You turn on an innocent pen which would not write and suddenly there are two pieces of sharp blue plastic flying towards the dresser, all your vehemence and depression expressed in the violent arc. The motion ceases with a clear and crisp collision, all your anger suddenly gone and your eyes itching to cry.

So you do but you want to stop and you know that you can’t. All you want is to be somewhere else. In her arms being rocked to sleep like the last five years never happened. You said a prayer for her whilst you were out today but you couldn’t cry then. There were strangers watching. You waited until this moment, hidden away in your mind and under your blankets, when everything hit you and you wanted to scream from the pain. You can’t scream though. On the other side of those doors is your life and no matter how much you hurt, you cannot let them come in to console you. They do such a poor job of it.

What you want to do is stop crying and stop being angry. You want to go sit in another bedroom and ask your father if he’s here long and if he’ll change things for you. You want privacy and a room where you can hurt all day if you want. You want Sarah to leave. You want all those people who are not family to go away for the night because this is your mother’s birthday and they don’t belong here. Not now. They don’t belong in your grief. You want to go back into that bedroom and curl back up on the bed, wishing you’d done better at the competitions today so you’d feel like you were worthy of an opinion and feelings. You would not yell at your father but you would show him that you are crying and tell him that you want him to fix it.

You can’t even go to her grave tonight. He lost his licence so you have the burden of deciding whether he risks it. It is too much of a burden for you. You are already so far under. Those waves that everyone listens to as they sleep rise far higher than anyone would imagine. You are so sure of being crushed by the weight of the water before you drown. What will it be: death by punctured lung or death by asphyxiation?

You were going to see a play this night but you knew you would be tired from your morning. You regret it but it doesn’t matter. You can always go see a different one. You always do. What frustrates you is that there is so little to do now. All day, it was your mother’s birthday and that was no problem. It caused no drama. You were busy but you paused to take moments for her when you could. You even crossed yourself with the pentagram and prayed. You were not religious. There were no folded palms or fervently closed eyes. You were just praying. Maybe even just talking, having one of those one-sided conversations you are so good at. Now it looks to you like the night will be endless, dragging on and stealing your hopes of sleep. This isn’t just because you have awful room mates who ruin things for you. You are hurting tonight and it has been a long time since you could hurt like this. Eventually you might cry yourself to sleep but it will be a long night.

Some nights you curl up and would rather die before going to sleep but right now that ache in your heart is a nothing that ties you down. No one can die with such a hole in their heart. You cannot die in love. That is why there are failures to attest, a white and a red bracelet to tell you never to be so weak. Tonight you are that weakness that you swore never to be but the ache in your heart keeps you alive. No one who loves may die. Your mother died but there was no love in that death. It was metal and branches. You were angry and violent inside but you loved. It was love for what you used to have that caused it and love for your little family, the ones who have all abandoned you since, that brought you home.

You don’t know who to turn to. Who else has lost someone like you have? More importantly, who can you ask about it? There are bridges which still smoulder and you wish that you could raise them from their ashes but “It’s Complicated”. You are so confused and your head pounds all the time. The effort of seeing straight, of first thoughts and second sights nearly kills you. The throbbing of your skull cripples you. This is the life you have to look forward to. You are never satisfied but it cannot change.

So you become that person in the cemetery at night. You’re the one who opens the gates when it’s dark because you’re at a public cemetery. The public should feel comfortable coming in. I digress. The gates are open and the headlights are bright behind your back. You don’t recognise where you are but it is ok because you know what to look for. The dusty red pot stands out, stark-white under the moon. You talk to your dead mother under the ground because it is her birthday. You’re crying again and you still can’t stop but it is better now that your eyes no longer itch and burn.

All you took were daffodils. You couldn’t find carnations even though you knew they were her favourite flowers. So you took her Cancer Council Daffodils. Your mother was forever supporting the devastating and surely lost cases. She would rather die than refuse someone help. This taught you to value others but it also made you a young woman who does not want to spread her love thin. You are an extrovert by nature and you love people but you are no longer the social butterfly you once were. You love to avoid people but quickly adapt when you are forced into the presence of others. You could never be shy.

Every day you want to claim your home back but you know you can’t. Everyone is equal here but some people are more equal than others. Even you know that. You actually found the courage to speak up to your father but it was of no use. He didn’t see the point you were making and took something entirely different away. Even when he listens to you, he doesn’t hear what you tell him. It will always be one more thing you struggle to forgive him for.

Merry Meet

Merry may we meet
Merry may we part
Merry may we meet again

Merry Meet
Merry Part
Merry Meet Again

Merry Meet

That is all.

August 21

It's Mum's birthday soon. God, sometimes everything just starts rushing at me and I don't notice.
We went past the accident site on the way to Lake Mountain for Outdoor Ed (skiing) and Good Riddance (Time of Your Life) came on the radio. Then Bacon was talking about car accidents and how people have their necks crushed so I vomited outside my classroom. Oh, then there's a lack of sleep on top of that. Fuck, everything just keeps coming to beat me down.
They're waves with no break, just a massive trough that I can walk along before being crushed by the crest.

Dialogue With The Depression

Hell-o Amy. How have you
Been; Devastated. Perhaps
You should begin; It is not
Too hard to smile, I’m sure;
But you aren’t me so how
Would you know; I am your
Depression. Don’t forget
That; How could I? You follow
Me everywhere and I always
See you; Remember to be
Polite when we meet; I always
Am and greet you. Good
Evening, good afternoon; I
Know you don’t like me; Of
Course I don’t! My life is
HELL and I owe that to you;
At least I am thanked; It is
NOT a compliment; Say what
You mean; I want to cry; See
I understand you much more
Now I know what you want;
Are you sarcastic; Never
But I am sardonic; You know
They are the same, you
Infuriating imbecile; I love so
Much to hurt you; I can tell,
You watch me bleed out; Still
I am ever polite about it. It is
Why you must show the same
Courtesy; ‘Inside I am bleeding.
Sir, Good evening, good afternoon.’
; Always.

Damnation!

Today, the effort of blogging escaped me and so I have been scouring the hard drive of my laptop looking for a suitable work to display. Unfortunately, none could be found and so I was pushed into a tight little corner. From this position I either would be coerced into showing one piece of my mind and what I am currently thinking or a different piece of which the same could be said.
And so it came to be that 'To Define the New Selves' has found its way into our midst.
Here, this is it.

To Define The New Selves
-Amy Miller

Who are we but pacing discoverers of the new world?
Describe us as you will but see what is to see.
Who is any person in this world
But a MySpace page
A few unread emails and
An accident in the traffic jam
On the tedious commute to the tedious job?

Who are we but pacing discoverers of the new world?
The unseeing eye to poverty and homelessness
Hardened against the needs
Of other to protect the needs of self.
Were we not happy?
Barefoot and pregnant with society
Held and in order?

Who are we but pacing discoverers of the new world?
We are grossly malformed with surgical beauty
The beauty of ourselves.
Vices become our many loves
The land walked by the corrupt.
The place where children cry for working mothers
And the nightly men who provide their wages. Or their beatings.

Who are we but pacing discoverers of the new world?
Perhaps a blog and an addiction to shoes
Those who lay waste to the true beauties.
Pacing through the concrete corridors
To avarice and breeding contempt
With our two-toned blazers and Daddy’s credit card.
The thieves with no incentive, no hungry children at home.

Who are we but pacing discoverers of the new world?
With our chain smoking and lopping of trees
Men on sites calling to women from tradition
Serenades about bitches and booties.
I personally sigh and refuse to name others or label.
We refuse to disuse faggot.
We breed through violence and bleed for sport.

Educators Are Awful

My Geography teacher is a lemon! I do not even know his name and I am fully set against learning it. I do not like him. I feel slightly awful for also judging his appearances but only a little. Very few instructors of education have made my staying in their classes practically impossible to stand and much less pleasant than leaving. Two really.
This man and Mrs Healey. Of course, I have severely aggravated my own share of teachers. There is a favourite memory of mine that regards an incident with Mr Gardiner and a whiteboard marker. I still cannot forgive or excuse this man.
His grasp of the English language disgusts me. For one, it is a ‘cause and effect diagram’ and not “chunking”. “Chunking” is a vile word and I find its pronunciation to be awful. The sound of this word makes me wish to be sick and then to maim him. Another issue is that he seems incapable of saying ‘gentlemen’ or ‘boys’ or ‘guys’ if it is to follow a phrase along the lines of ‘be quiet’ or ‘shut up’. It would appear that he is only able to complete such a complaint in regards to “the ladies present”.
I do not like sexist persons and even less so do I like them if they are of the kind who demean the sexes.
He has pixie ears. They are creepy and they are made even worse by the haircut. I want to cry every time I look at him because I feel like he is planning to molest someone. He has an odd face. It is not ugly or pretty or big or small or hairy or unshaven. It is just a face and it makes me uncomfortable. Whenever he approaches Courtney (who must ALWAYS be beside me because one of us ALWAYS has to copy something; cheating, no but teamwork? Yes.) I pretty much turn into the Incredible Hulk on the inside. I see colours and I really want to hurt this guy.
There is just something about him that makes me want to cause significant amounts of pain to him on frequent occasions. For the most part I can explain what it is at the time that does ire me so but there are moments when I just rage at him without explanation.
One explanation is that he is simply not Fiona. Mrs Tonizzo has the power to be one of the most frighting and feared teachers for a student but we had an understanding. I was odd, she was pedantic. It worked well for us. She understood the way that my mind worked. No matter how she seemed to irritate me about Alex or how she refused to have disciples of Buddha in her class, she always had that and I am appreciative of it.
Another is that I like my personal space around new teachers, particularly males. I tend to have problems until they prove themselves worthy of my regard and education related attentions. Of course, there will always be a bare level of respect. There are standards to become a teacher as there are of most things and the successful achievement of these will induce me to be respectful but not more than is necessary.
Or maybe I just do not like him. He is not my teacher, just a man at the front of my room trying to control my class.

Explaining Down the Rabbit Hole

I could discuss my other dream but it was fairly erratic. It was also like Down the Rabbit Hole in that it was not a nightmare but more a dream that made me sad. So I will not be discussing Film in Schools. I will give an explanation to Down the Rabbit Hole instead.
I am at the beginning of something (dawn, baby Jorba) and am at peace (the proverbial olive branch) with my life. I’m comfortable with starting things for the first time or beginning things all over again. I am distracted by something captivating (butterflies) and it has coerced me into leaving a part of myself (Jorba) behind in pursuit of that something.
The forked roads and trees with black leaves made me think of a Robert Frost poem. The poem was about choices, particularly the choice between what is right and what is easy. Again, I was distracted by the butterflies and ignored which choice I made. This is about me being uncertain as to my ability to discern the difference between my choices. I run with my choice but am quickly abandoned (butterflies fly away [...party in the U.S.A...]). I am the kind of person who will choose what appears important and there are many people who will stand by me for it. When it proves itself to be a choice of hard work, more people will leave than will stay and I am alone in my beliefs.
I face criticisms but never give in to them (not feeling the cold ground) because I will not forsake my identity. The sunlight does not gently light my way but illuminates large areas and hides others. I show no fear of this. My dream self knows as my real self does; I can’t know everything but I can know enough to make life easy. The mushrooms are a symbol of things that are not as they seem. The mushrooms are poison, the bread rolls are not. I have to be wary of something trying to deceive me.
I can be led to water (the growing river) but not forced to drink; my decisions are my own. I have been given an opportunity of some sort and it is my decision as to whether or not I take it. I do and it turns sour (the net). I am dragged under but I make the most of my unfortunate situation. I talk my way out of a problem. I was not (forgive me) surprised by that talent showing itself. Next I am thrown slowly over a waterfall. This part of the dream shows how I struggle when I am not in control.
The four items I stole intrigued me. The first symbolises (to me of course) that I am losing touch with my friends. I recognise these people who are so important to me but I don’t know who they are (yearbook with no names). The people who are important to me are falling away. I have lost time (broken watch); years have gone and have been wasted. I am unsure about the name. I don’t know anyone named Amelia Sullen. Amelia always makes me think of the female pilot. I have a mild fear of flying though. It is possibly why I have never flown anywhere. Sullen implies a bad temper. So, flying and a bad mood...Mood swings? I’m constantly irritated lately and it is beginning to annoy me. Something is now growing (seeds) from this anger. Whatever it is is becoming more corporeal and important. I tried to displace my anger (throwing the seeds) and they attached themselves elsewhere. I can’t get rid of the anger in my life. I don’t know what to make of the fruitcake unless I relate it directly to myself. I don’t see myself as crazy but I know I’m at least a little odd.
The pig is how I see (most) others. They are brutish animals trying to disguise themselves. They want to take something from me and break me down. They want my individuality. Under pressure (the Dalmatian) though, others will break where I will bend and I will (literally here) have to pick up where they leave off.
I find others to be ostentatious (castle) and this makes me feel as though they are deliberately trying to belittle me. The woman in white suggests purity but also that I have learned. I did not trust her appearance and instead took precautions (tipping out the wine) and it saved me. My connection to life (the flower) is not beautiful (colourless) but it is strong (elephant reference). Recognising it is startling and throws me off balance. My show of (forgive me again) surprise is annoying in some way to others (the pig) and causes pain. I am distracted once again by a shiny and/or colourful object (the ceiling) and once again go looking for something better (‘forever’).
My enemies or ill-behaving acquaintances (the woman in white) still help me no matter what I do. I tend to make enemies who turn out to be worthwhile friends. Due to my above average communication and social skills, I have infinite (every colour of flower) opportunities available to me. Infinite as in overwhelming (passing out). Too often I let people take advantage of my care and hospitality. At times, it leaves me drained (nauseous, bleeding) and incapable of looking after my own needs. My life has been reduced to nothing (the fires) and there is a gaping hole where something is missing. The dream suggests a fear of this destruction (the falling) but also shows that I am capable of handling it (the landing). I may have been bruised and in pain but I am still alive. I am naively curious (Jorba) of how I know I will always do something insanely stupid (like chasing butterflies) and be sure I will make it out just fine.
Apparently, I told me so.