Sabato, 01 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Marie Sven Gerkin at 15:14

i don't know why it happen or how it happened or when it happened. there was a loud bang. a noise. an explosion near my head. one minute they were there and the next there was blood every where. it splashed across my face. it's splattered on my dress. oh christ will i ever be able to get that out? i just blacked out. it was like a nightmare. i swear. the police sirens screamed in my head. i don't know why it happened. i just know it did. i don't know who to blame. i just know that it happened. and the sound of that gun shot is still exploding in my head. exploding like a cannon. but it was such a small gun. it barely fitted into your hand. i don't know why it happened. i just know i was there. i didn't want to be there. i wanted to be far away. under a blanket. in a warm bed. being hugged by someone. someone who cared about me. i don't know why it happened. that's what i told the police. that's what i told that detective guy. what's his name? detective inspector stevens or something. i don't know why it happened. i just know i was there.

Lunedì, 03 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Signora Teresa at 20:19

My name is Teresa Rose. I am Silvia's Auntie. And yes, of course, I love the girl. She is my niece and I love to see her eat. She has such an appetite. For a girl. It must be all that dancing. All that movement. But when she moves it's like the sun is coming out on a rainy day and dry everything up. She's beautiful and I love her very much.

I am going to tell you her favourite recipe. No body make this like me. Ahh, to see her face light up like a thousand candles when I make for her. It's lasagne. You try. You'll like.

Then serve and enjoy.

Mercoledì, 05 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Marie Sven Gerkin at 21:32

There are a lot of things that I remember about my father. (I hope you understand that I am talking about Lionel Gerkin here) At least I can say that I am one of the lucky ones.

I remember as a small girl, how happy he always was to see me. How he would hug me tight. So tight I sometimes couldn't breath. That smell of his after shave that lasted a whole day.

His tickles would cause a rush of delight in me. He was always there. When I had my first Holy communion. My Confirmation. My sports days. He was there. Always there.

It wasn't so much that he made me feel like a grown up and cared for. I think in many ways I helped him feel like a child again. I don't really ever think had much of a childhood. I never really met his parents. Nor did he ever talk about them.

He just enjoyed doing things, being around. He was so much more comfortable around children than he was around adults. Or people his own age.

I think he just saw them as big people. He could never live up to their expectations. Especially not their expectations of what a man should be.

A man. What is that any way? A dick on a stick? A testosterone filled bag of bones? Someone who shouldn't have and can't have any feelings or emotions?

Lionel wasn't like that. I'd go running for him like I did everyday as a little girl. He'd get home. I'd hear the door close and his footstep down the hall.

How old would I have been? Oh, I don't know. Little.

I can remember it like it was yesterday.

I rushed down the hall. So fast. Couldn't wait to get there. To see him.

I rounded the corner. He was there. Standing there. Tall, rough, unshaven and smoking. I couldn't smell the after shave. It was Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez.

"Honey,... baby ... wait ..." it was my mother coming up behind me down the hall. I just kept staring. He kept smoking. His stupid smile beaming contentedly.

"Baby, there's something I need to tell you ... about your father ... " He wasn't there anymore.

What more could she possibly want to tell me?

Venerdì, 07 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Jesus Miguel Luis Rodriguez at 07:53

Sex is fantastic. You are in the realm of the Gods and you fear no one. You join together, slowly the pin is pushed down until you feel the explosion. Sometimes the explosion is full of dynamite, sometimes it is full of old dead nails and shit.

I look at it this way, how many explosions can you have in a lifetime? An explosion is an explosion.

You may want to get it if you can, because in the end you are still alone. You get up, put on your clothes, run that hair gel through your locks, take a long look in the mirror to make sure you're attractive for the next woman, and then you walk out the door.

Alone.

You want to give them a kiss goodbye. But you never do.

What are you going to do? It's Friday.

Martedì, 11 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 08:11

Sex is not about having, it's about giving.

Sometimes it just doesn't work. You thrash away, but all you feel is the other person slipping away. At the end of it, I hold my lips tight and closed. I can't speak. I feel disappointed.

Alone.

I want to apologise. But I never do. I never say a thing.

Sabato, 15 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 08:39

I work at the Dance Factory. My role is to manage the Toaster production line. Ensure the quality is to the highest standard. I often get in early to make sure we are meeting production numbers and schedules. I also do it to get away from the usual morning greet. You know the kind:

"How are you doing, Manny? Cold today." I say.

"Good thanks Lionel." That's all I really want to hear. I don't really want to talk. It was just a courtesy. But no. "Cold, you reckon, Lionel. It's not that cold. Now last week it was cold, especially in the mornings."

"Yes, you're quite right, Manny. Last week was colder. Have a good ..."

"Brisk, whooo. I got out of bed to walk the dog and I have to tell you my balls just rushed straight back up and hid." He laughs. I don't. "My dick had shrunk so much I could hardly find it to take a leak..."

Now we're getting into the area of too much information.

I just nod and paste a smile on my face. These are my workers. I should spend some quality time with them.

"... I have to tell you, Lionel. If the Missus asked me to stand to attention, I would have had a problem ..."

I half listen. My head just nods. I look up at the office where the real management lives. They are rarely seen down here. Mr Pisaro is there. And I see Silvia. We have long parted, but I still think of her everyday.

They are talking and smiling, high above there in the clouds of steam that are generated from the kettles being tested. There is an intimacy in their eyes that I have never noticed before. She pushes back her hair from her face and binds it into a tight coil at the back of her head.

She buttons the top two buttons of her jacket. He looks at the necklace around her neck. It is the one I gave her. He reaches for it, their eyes meet and they laugh coyly. His hand slips down and slides over her breast. She makes no movement.

I am invisible. The factory around them is invisible. They are protected by steam clouds. They are in heaven. I am in hell. No one can see the way I feel. Not even Manny.

"You know, Lionel, I've had that dog for three years and do you think it would learn to sit? 'Sit!', I say. And it rolls over. 'Roll over, then, come on, good dog,' and it sits. It's a dumb dog, but you know what, Lionel, I still love it. I don't know what I would do without it..."

Lunedì, 17 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Signora Teresa at 16:04

Let me tell you, there are a lot of people who really enjoy my food. When I was young and still a single girl, the men didn't see me as one of the beauties of the village. I was able to seduce them all with just the smell of my food. If that alone didn't work then the first bite and I knew they were mine.

Food is like sex,if you don't enjoy cooking it, then how would you expect the other person to enjoy eating it?

Ah, maybe that didn't come out exactly as it should have, but you know what I mean.

These sex isn't one of the activities high on my list. Mind you i still enjoy a good roll in bed with the right person. And if you think that's strange wait until you get to be over 60 and then tell me how you feel having an old man on top of you. You pray that they won't die there as they struggle away, huffing and puffing. I pray for their heart to stay strong.

But anyway, enough of that stuff. It;s the last thing you expect to hear from an old woman. Sex and the aged, it shouldn't happen right? I don't think I ever wanted to hear about my mother and sex. Oh my God, just the thought makes me blush. I should really be talking about food. This is a Ricotta Cake, or Cheese Cake and is one of my favourites.

Let it cool and serve with cream or even better, vanilla ice cream. Now taste it and you'll immediately see that you'll want to have sex with me. Don't be ridiculous, I'm over 60 years of age. Are you crazy?

Oh, alright, if you insist. Come this way.

Martedì, 18 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Lionel Gerkin at 08:31

At the Dance Factory, my role is as head of the Toaster production line. Toasters have become a little passe these days, but they are still a marvel of modern engineering. People just see the colour of the bread that is popped out and its shade of brown.

They fail to see the magic that goes on within the chrome exterior.

I tried to explain this once to Silvia. It's just a simple story of finding a role for something that doesn't work as efficiently as it should.

Let me explain, the basic premise of a toaster it to expose extreme heat to a piece of bread so that it can be "toasted" to a golden brown colour.

Plug a toaster in and it'll run electricity through a special mixture of metals. One of these metals is Nichrome wire which is an alloy of nickel and chromium.

And here's the magic. Electricity finds it difficult to pass through nichrome. Not that it's dangerous or anything, it's just that it's not an efficient carrier. It slows down the flow holding up the current.

So, what happens? The electrons are running around like crazy trying to get through, the metal is slowing them down, friction is increasing and the wires are starting to really heat up.

And they glow with the heat required to toast your morning breakfast.

I looked over at Silvia and noticed she was attacking her fingernails with an emery board. "Can I have marmalade with that toast?" she said.

Giovedì, 20 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Marie Sven Gerkin at 12:57

i wake often these days. i wake up often in the middle of the night. or it could be the middle of the day. i don't know any more. i just wake up in a sweat. my clothes are drenched. the sweat is dripping off my brow. i sometimes wake screaming. i can see it. i always see it. there it is slowly coming out of the darkness. there is a glint of moonlight that makes it seem almost inviting. just for a moment. you almost want to touch it. to caress it.

then it fires with an explosion and releases all its evil with a noise that's frightening. it still frightens me. i can still hear it. exploding in my ears. the sound smashing into my brain. the reverberations lasted for what seemed like hours. in fact i can still hear them. they may last a lifetime.

it was Jesus's gun. a small, chromed piece of metal that i saw fire in someone's hand. i don't know whose hand it was. i just remember there were screams. female screams. among them were thumps of something hitting lumps of meat. i remember nothing else. i'm scared to remember anything else. and then the gun. it comes out slowly. it comes out into the moonlight. it makes itself heard. demanding to be heard. unmistakable. loud. agressive. violent.

i remember something jesus would always sing. the words were something about:

Happiness is a warm gun
Happiness is a warm gun, momma
When I hold you in my arms
And I feel my finger on your trigger
I know nobody can do me no harm
Because happiness is a warm gun, momma
Happiness is a warm gun

i don't want to remember any more.

Sabato, 22 Maggio, 2004 | Posted by Detective Stevens at 13:21

I often look at a dead body and try to figure out the life that it lived. In my line of work, teh dead bodies I mainly look at have been murdered. I look at a body like that, one who has had life taken away, suddenly stopped and I wonder what could have been.

Does any one really care?

Will anyone care when they see me on the slab? I look at the Coroner's assistants delving into parts of the body, looking for reasons, looking for anomalies in a life that has led the body to this place. For anyone who has never stepped foot into a mortuary the first thing you notice is the cleanliness. The next thing is the smell which attacks your nostrils with a verve that demands attention.

The assistants go about their work like butchers. To them the body is nothing more than a piece of meat held together by a structure of bones. Life has long left the scene by the time they start their work. A life has disappeared. In my case, I often look on a life that will be remembered by very few.

There will be some tears shed, but they will soon dry up and memories will soon fade.

The ones that frighten me are the ones that often leave scars behind. They still exist in that shadowy time between sleep and wakefulness. They inhabit our memories with a frightening reality that resonates day after day after day. I often see it in the eyes of the ones left behind. You can feel it in their hands as they shake yours. If I have the chance to see them years later, I can still see that scar. It's now ingrained. It has developed into a physical representation. You see it in a twitch or a mannerism. It just never leaves you.

I see it now.