Time to jot down…
…the random, the intentional, the rants from my week that was.
Sydney has been a hectic, storm-lashed town, for days. Umbrellas have failed and conquered. I wrote to the deafening thrum of raindrops crashing on our tin roof – comforting, loud, relentless – a sound for all sensations.
On a film set this week, a wardrobe mistress looked down her nose at my sparkly boots and smooth, claret velvet suit. Dressed me in an ill-fitting Chanel-dupe jacket; grey, boxy, dumb. Had to grin and wear it. The film’s star and writer blanked us – the mere, inconsequential extras. She clearly couldn’t spare a spec of thanks for the extras who shivered in an icy, outdoor scene so her story could be told.
And I’ve felt the aftershocks from a ‘run-in’ with a sociopathic teacher, as a tender-faced eight-year-old, when she grabbed my shoulders and shook me like I was a tree that would bear her fruit.
Maybe that’s when a stutter settled on my tongue because I recall a time as a little girl when my speech was bump-free. Did that bitch bring it on? She was tall with brown, pock-marked skin and spiky black hair. I hated her.
She silenced my voice for decades.
Meanwhile, the rain hasn’t abated. Some rush to avoid the deluge, others revel in it? I watched a man stroll unfussed, pelted by fat drops, sans umbrella. Mad? Or assured by the knowledge that eventually…
‘…the storm will run out of water’. Maya Angelou
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