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Posts Tagged ‘philosophy’

Fruit mince lie!

July 11, 2010 2 comments

I’ve decided it’s time to bake an apple crumble.  The Cub has an exhibition to host in Darling Harbour this week and The Kid is with her dad and grandma during the school holidays so there’s no real point right now unless you’d like to come over sometime over the next weekend?  Just don’t be creepy like this dude.

I’ve always been more into meat pies than I have been fruit pies or, worse still, fruit mince pies.  While I love pie crusts when done right, I do not feel I will ever have the confidence to bake a pie from scratch.  Nor do I have a nifty little window sill with gingham curtains and an outside flowerbox in which to cool said pie, so I’m not considering it.  Thinking of pies that aren’t savoury in nature makes me uncomfortable, as I feel that the fruit (mince?) pie is largely Amercian and only serves to give me false hope when I’m invited over for pie.

Apple crumble, however, is doable.  I like soft apples.  I like crumble.  Wait, what?

Unrelated observation:  There are a LOT of flagrantly racist WordPress blogs out there now, huh?

On Solitude

July 5, 2010 2 comments

I remember my blood congealing underneath my skin as my phone went off, a dumb buzz in my clammy hands.  I looked up at the rotund window-washer swinging gloriously back and forth atop the domed gravel bank, an engorged horsefly drunk on a dumpy grey horse’s arse. 

Late, you know how it is, I’m sorry and blah…

No worries, I said, because there’s a guy washing windows up high and I want to see him fall off or at least lose his bucket.

You wore chinos because your grandmother said that’s what gentlemen wore.  I asked you how she was and you said she was long dead.  We talked about doggybag alfoil swans and then you said you needed a fellow idiot to deconstruct Kant.  We laughed heartily and became fast friends.   

I hear you occasionally when boughs break in the valley and wonder what you read these days.

Egg cartons lined your walls when you had vague dreams of being successful, a beaten up Korg stunning against the mural of a blurry Macleay Street outside, decades of vomit and faded glitter streaking bins and parking spots that cost hundreds of thousands.  I hate the city because the hum becomes a din becomes something bigger that eats you alive. 

I swung myself back in from your balcony ledge, a lame horsefly drowsy on nicotine.  Ash blew back into your lounge and I covered it with De Montaigne as you played back a mis-dialled answering machine message from three weeks prior where an Indian woman crooned for eight minutes straight in a dialect that we both knew then was going to outlive us.