i'm trying to sell a car. that's what i'm doing with my saturday, nay, my entire weekend. people are so suspicious. one guy sent his brother to look at it and he brought a guy in overalls, so i'm guessing he was or was pretending to be a mechanic. he opened the bonnet, stroked his chin, looked over the top of his glasses and muttered "not worth it, not worth it". the brother said "i'll let roger talk to you" and they left without taking it for a drive. i'm sure they planned their little performance in the car on the way over...although i don't think they are going to buy the car, even if they were going to they would have reacted the same way so they can beat me down on price.
the thing that really pissed me off about this roger guy was the fact that we had this conversation when he called earlier today:
Roger: You said it was negotiable, right?
Me: Yes...
Roger: So you'll 'look after me', alright?
Me: Well...
Roger: Cos I don't have a lot of money.
Me: Neither do I.
Roger: But you live in Glebe.
will someone explain to me what that has to do with anything? yes, i live in glebe. i live in a rented house with my mother and brother, according to the recent census i fall into the 'battler' wage bracket, and i'm trying to sell a decent car for a paltry $4000. but because i live in glebe, apparently that means that i have a secret swiss bank account and am trying to rip everyone off.
the thing about glebe that i like is the fact that although there are some wealthy people, there are students, grungey people, ferals, conservative people, families, young people, old people, slightly odd people, slightly normal people...basically everyone fits in somewhere and you don't have to match a certain demographic to feel comfortable.
so i hope roger doesn't ring me back to try and 'negotiate'. i don't particularly want to be beaten down by some guy who thinks that i'm a rich snob when he hasn't even met me or come in person to look at the thing he wants to buy.
grumble.
Saturday, 26 October 2002
Thursday, 24 October 2002
i've decided to use this blog as a bit of a drawing board. some sketches, some shady characters, a bit of experimentation. here you will have the breathtaking privilege of reading snippets of works in progress. mainly it's a ploy to make it look like i'm writing a lot...transparent, i know.
also, you can comment. which may or may not be a good thing.
Gabriel sat very patiently. He was sick of waiting but he tried very hard to look as though he was happy sitting on the hard, cold bench as he had been for the last hour. He caught the eye of Angelica, sitting opposite, and smiled. She looked away.
He sighed and looked down at his feet. White sandshoes. He hated the things. So ordinary. So inelegant. His feet looked like a pair of oversized dinner rolls, and he personally didn’t find them any more comfortable or practical than the shoes he used to wear.
He didn’t like white much, either. He would have preferred an all black ensemble, but if you wore black it meant you were otherwise affiliated. Sometimes he wondered why such distinctions were even necessary. Nobody seemed to care anymore; the uniforms certainly didn’t get the recognition they had in the old days. There had been minor reforms over the years to fit in with changing modes of fashion, but as far as Gabriel could see there was no style involved. No imagination. No sense of humour. At least in the past there had been the frills and furbelows expected of his station. Now there was an all-purpose white suit, white shirt, white tie. And white sandshoes. He sighed.
“Gabriel!” He heard his voice called out, and he stood up. Angelica gave him a look as he passed, a look that seemed to exude resentment and dislike. Except they weren’t allowed to feel resentment and dislike, so it must have been a trick of the light, he surmised as he walked across the courtyard.
“How are you today, Gabriel?” Marianne smiled as he approached, handing him a clipboard.
“Fine, Marianne. And yourself?” He signed the clipboard and handed it back to her
“Just perfect!” She smiled again as she countersigned.
I’ll just bet. He thought, watching her flick through a set of files. When is she not perfect? Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect everything. He looked at her feet. I’ll bet she even likes the shoes.
“Here we are!” She handed him a large envelope with his name on it. “Have a great day!”
“But I always do,” he simpered back, and she laughed. He got into the lift and pulled the wrought iron grille shut behind him.
He supposed there were negative aspects to every job. It wasn’t that it was a terrible occupation, but it felt like he’d been doing the same old thing for centuries. Day in, day out, helping others his only purpose, his only reward. There weren’t any other options, though – what else could he possibly be?
The lift stopped. He opened the grille and stepped out into another working day.
also, you can comment. which may or may not be a good thing.
Gabriel sat very patiently. He was sick of waiting but he tried very hard to look as though he was happy sitting on the hard, cold bench as he had been for the last hour. He caught the eye of Angelica, sitting opposite, and smiled. She looked away.
He sighed and looked down at his feet. White sandshoes. He hated the things. So ordinary. So inelegant. His feet looked like a pair of oversized dinner rolls, and he personally didn’t find them any more comfortable or practical than the shoes he used to wear.
He didn’t like white much, either. He would have preferred an all black ensemble, but if you wore black it meant you were otherwise affiliated. Sometimes he wondered why such distinctions were even necessary. Nobody seemed to care anymore; the uniforms certainly didn’t get the recognition they had in the old days. There had been minor reforms over the years to fit in with changing modes of fashion, but as far as Gabriel could see there was no style involved. No imagination. No sense of humour. At least in the past there had been the frills and furbelows expected of his station. Now there was an all-purpose white suit, white shirt, white tie. And white sandshoes. He sighed.
“Gabriel!” He heard his voice called out, and he stood up. Angelica gave him a look as he passed, a look that seemed to exude resentment and dislike. Except they weren’t allowed to feel resentment and dislike, so it must have been a trick of the light, he surmised as he walked across the courtyard.
“How are you today, Gabriel?” Marianne smiled as he approached, handing him a clipboard.
“Fine, Marianne. And yourself?” He signed the clipboard and handed it back to her
“Just perfect!” She smiled again as she countersigned.
I’ll just bet. He thought, watching her flick through a set of files. When is she not perfect? Perfect hair, perfect teeth, perfect everything. He looked at her feet. I’ll bet she even likes the shoes.
“Here we are!” She handed him a large envelope with his name on it. “Have a great day!”
“But I always do,” he simpered back, and she laughed. He got into the lift and pulled the wrought iron grille shut behind him.
He supposed there were negative aspects to every job. It wasn’t that it was a terrible occupation, but it felt like he’d been doing the same old thing for centuries. Day in, day out, helping others his only purpose, his only reward. There weren’t any other options, though – what else could he possibly be?
The lift stopped. He opened the grille and stepped out into another working day.
in an attempt to break the so-called writer's block, i have resurrected the blerg. while updates may be infrequent and the content questionable, if i at least try to write often, something may indeed happen.
if you have read any of the other areas of this site, you'll notice that the stories are all first person, rather melancholy, reflections on relationships and such. while i think that's a perfectly valid thing, when they're all collected together like this it makes me wonder why my output has been so one-eyed. in recent times i have tried to write in the third person, and often those stories are fun and ramble on for pages, but i suddenly lose interest. i may soon post one or some of them in an attempt to force myself to finish something!
i find myself quite captivated by an image or a moment, and less by great story arcs or intricate plot. i'm often quite surprised to find, reading over something, that there was a plot in there, as it ususally felt as though i was stumbling around in the dark! i suppose that's why i write in a fragmented style most of the time, as it captures those 'moments'. i'm not sure if it's frustrating to read - is it? do let me know.
i suppose that's what the story
if you have read any of the other areas of this site, you'll notice that the stories are all first person, rather melancholy, reflections on relationships and such. while i think that's a perfectly valid thing, when they're all collected together like this it makes me wonder why my output has been so one-eyed. in recent times i have tried to write in the third person, and often those stories are fun and ramble on for pages, but i suddenly lose interest. i may soon post one or some of them in an attempt to force myself to finish something!
i find myself quite captivated by an image or a moment, and less by great story arcs or intricate plot. i'm often quite surprised to find, reading over something, that there was a plot in there, as it ususally felt as though i was stumbling around in the dark! i suppose that's why i write in a fragmented style most of the time, as it captures those 'moments'. i'm not sure if it's frustrating to read - is it? do let me know.
i suppose that's what the story
Wednesday, 23 October 2002
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