Hunter James

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The day was clear, a slight breeze blew in through the window as we drove down the mountain road. The sea was an aqua blue, it was terrifically perfect though so vague. Small villages passed as we got deeper and deeper into the beachside national park. I wondered if it was still national park by this stage, though I was feeling wonderfully sedated despite the in dooming loneliness that filled the car. My dad spoke.
' This song is excellent, the riff is done exactly how I would of done it, so precise'
I nod.
An alternative instrumental was playing on the radio, one of the few good songs on a horrible Sunday radio show. My dad saw music in colour , clarity and precision. A true musician who couldn’t play music. We drove on, finding ourselves further and further from the dim comfort of pie shops and playgrounds.
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And this girl will sigh,
take me high, take me higher.
Her eyes most refusing to let go.
And it’s shine will wink, i’ll take you higher.
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When i join word to dream,
to make a connection.
Whether it be of something absurd
or my streamed reflection.
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If I had the right words
I would write you, indenting my love through verse
If I knew where to start
I would paint you, ink caressed features In pastels.
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Same old I will write, missing you, it’s a surprise. I see the green dot illuminate over your name to indicate your arrival into the vast cyberspace. Its funny thinking of you, hours from I. Sitting in front of the same old infinity. I can see you with your hair up, your white tank top and your Pyjamas. Your sober eyes searching for nothing in particular but a slight relief from back of head anxiety on who's doing what. I wonder if you wonder similar to I.

I would hope not.
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I had wrote a lovely description of the afternoon and appearance of a park but the stupid description of this park is not the point of this text. The point of this text is the people, thoughts and small events that happened in this park on this spring afternoon. And these people and small events may not seem relevant but it triggered the irrelevant brilliance that awakes your self absorbance after a social weekend.
And I suppose the description of the park is in fact relevant because at the time I found it overwhelmingly beautiful. It was pretty you couldn’t deny.
I sat in this park because my dad had told me to walk the dog. To my eleven o clock were three Lebanese boys destroying a tree (poor tree) . To my 9 o clock were two men in their late thirties drinking beer and chasing around a small boy. And passing me by was an old gentleman of an age I would guess to be around 65 in a red tee shirt, a shiny helmet wheeling a bicycle.
The thuggish looking Lebanese boys weren’t the issue (this isn't a fictionalised stereotype they were actually quite dangerous looking) , nor were the men drinking beer. Though this old man troubled me, for he seemed to be having tremendous trouble riding his bike. And the thought didn’t strike me that maybe this man is learning to ride a bike for the first time. Time passed of my arrogant intruding observing, I mean what the hell was wrong with this guy just get on the damn bike and ride it. But no it was obvious that just this afternoon he had thought to himself after years of contemplation and plan that this afternoon was the afternoon to learn how to ride a bike. And what an afternoon for it! Maybe this man had a fear of bikes. Maybe he could once ride a bike but crashed as a boy and didn’t take it back up. Maybe he never had parents to teach him and was to embarrassed to start as an adult. Maybe he always thought about it but never got around to it. Though it didn’t matter for Alas! On this spring afternoon this old man with the red shirt and the brand new bike helmet was going to ride a bike.
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This very second of being, this very second in this very room is not my eternal path, and anything that is felt now, will go unwritten.
I will try my hardest to extinguish any lingering impurity for the holy sake of tonight's moon.
This a moment so sad and beautiful and typical,
Why must life be so publicised?
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Today it was cold. A social melancholy. I wondered consumed, consumed by an absence with people that like my company. We wondered from tree to café, to bong to women. It was icy and beautiful but I only long myself. These long social experiences cause hidden brain mishaps. And then when I find myself alone I get knocks at my door. And then parties and substances and more women and noise. Now I'm worn dead. I myself needs yours truly to survive the long hours in thought. If I don’t think my already attained thoughts, they would burn in me. They will burn and burn potential down with it. And I will be left with a passion in a two minute microwave. A wonderful dream that is obstructed at three in the morning by the song of an alarm. For the abstract of life is thought out alone. Whether your distant thoughts are to think with another, it begins alone. And as of now I need a bit more of that.
Love and conversation are another topic. A topic I forever long admire and desire don’t get me wrong. Though this isn't a cake, it is water. And humans need water. I once forgot.
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Lets forget we ever met
Conceive delirium and soak the sheets in our sweat.
Lets burn heredity down dead.
Stake it to the cross and dance naked upon its bed.
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No more emotion beasts.

No sir.
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The air wouldn’t shiver
if there were no wind.
And life would feel purer,
if there were no sin.
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My Mind is weak
It chose lust,
in a river full of beauty.
Your words they sting me
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And ill spend many a days with a cold heart
Beating a burning desire.
These memories of scents and shades.
burn on and on
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Jordan crept down the hallway, the creeks in the mahogany floorboards seemed abnormally loud and the fridge droned its superficial hum. He reached the door and slid in the small gold key silently turning as not to wake his parents who no doubt needed their rest. The door opened with hesitation
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Its 2 am, cigarette loosely hangs from your bottom lip and hands are dug in jacket pocket. The stars aren't out, they're never out in the city, of course. You’re the only one awake, everyone else is asleep, peacefully dreaming. Its Tuesday, of course. You come to the agreement that life is crazy, just like last night, and the night before. Though its different tonight, of course.
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'Can't you feel the night? '
Expressionless, Sam crushes her cigarette with her thumb and middle finger before dropping it to her toes.
' The words in the breeze and the clink of glass? Why do you look so
...

My hands are numb like before,
when the moon met the paddocks.
Its hard concentrating, on the discarded love that blows along my street.
These faded distorted memories of mine,
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They told me the only way to go was up, as they crowded and smiled. ' he has a real gift' one would sing. ' And just 13' followed the choir. My fingers were callused and achy though my self esteem was high and my cheeks were red and it made me feel warm. They said, I was on a sure path to success. They said it so many times I almost believed them. In fact I was sure of it. It was the only truth I knew. They marched into my fragile beliefs and told me the most perfect lie anyone had told me.
Them and their sharp department store odours and leather handbags. The beer breathe and wrinkled skin and endless ' trust me I know what I'm talking about I've lived 66 years and never seen no one like you'
They told me the only way to go was up.
They were wrong. Going up is unheard of in my business, being 13 you really don't know to much about going down, you don't really believe in such a thing. Somewhere , they forgot to mention life. They forgot to mention death. They forgot a lot, or maybe they just didn’t know. Maybe we live in two different worlds them and I. Talent is talent to them, and to me. It just hangs on my shoulders, it says ' Nothing worse than wasted potential.' and I say ' shut up' and drink a beer secretly wishing I had the will to follow it through.
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My teas long cold, I'm now a quarter way through my second half essay amongst dabs of Facebook and doodles In my school book. Too long, too short, Kerouac's too pretentious, Gandhi's too typical. Far too much information, Chekhov once said ' One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it.' Far too many guns on my stage, does this count for essays?
Again with the Chekhov guidelines, reoccurring in drunken advice and religious debates more than a hundred years after the mans death. I fear the day humanity stops reassessing the blemishes with the old ' Chekhov once said' reminder. And it hits me, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov, perfect.
Anton Chekhov was a Russian Dramatist, physician and Author widely considered to be one of the greatest short story writers in history. He was an innovator of the modern short story and developed techniques still popular today, carefully blending stream of consciousness with traditional story structure, inspiring generations from James Joyce to Steven King.
Chekhov practiced as a physician throughout most of his career and considered it his principle profession saying ' Medicine is my lawful wife, and literature is my mistress.' Though he made small money from it, and even treated the poor for free.
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