Scott Pearce's Blog, page 2

Grapes and Roy

I love grapes, both the red and the white. I like the firm grapes without seeds. Seeds make me angry, so does the colour blue. They make me angry on the inside, angry where people can’t see. It’s a happy place the angry place because all the anger gets along. I call it Roy. Sometimes I can hear Roy sleeping; he dreams of flying machines and girls that have little piggy heads and little piggy tails. When Roy comes out to play he likes to dance. Roy and I dance through the streets shouting obscenities with every twirl. When Roy gets tired I take photos of him and make him say big words like Albuquerque. He gets confused and takes off his shoes and then I run away with his shoes and he weeps. Oh, that Roy!

Pony Club

When I was younger I wanted a pony. On the last Sunday of each month, with ceremony and reverence, The Mooroolbark Pony Club would meet; but only people lucky enough to own a pony could enter. I would watch the pony club competitions each month from the cover of long grass filled with the hope that someday I too could be part of the show. Alas, the years drifted on and it seemed my dream would never become a reality, until one day some new neighbors arrived. They were a large family that included their grandfather, an ogreish man with girlish lips and a fragmented memory. So I hatched a cunning plan; I abducted the grandfather, painted him brown and strapped a saddle to his back. He wasn’t the prettiest mount in the pony club that day but he certainly cleared those hurdles with gusto. Sadly he fell at the end of our third run and broke a leg. With a tear in my eye and a high-powered rifle in my hands I sent him to horsey heaven. Still, I got a participation ribbon and that is what is important.

Going to the movies

I remember, many years ago, when cinemas were a novelty and most people went to the drive-in. In my childhood, my parents would often take me to the drive-in. I loved to visit the popcorn stand. Of course the popcorn stand sold a variety of culinary delights but it also served as a social venue for those disinterested in the film. I recall so distinctly the voices of those around the popcorn stand as I nervously approached:
“That ugly kid isn’t wearing any pants.”
Yet there was also a kindly old man in a candy stripped uniform behind the counter. He offered life advice in a baritone voice:
"They’re serviettes not toilet paper! Don’t put them back in the dispenser. ”
I often hear these same words today when I go to the local cinema but they just don’t have the same magic they once did.

Poems

My favourite William Wordsworth poem is "Lines written a few miles above Tintern Abbey on revisiting the banks of the Wye during a tour, July 13, 1798." In the poem Wordsworth reflects on the complexities of adult life and the hopes he has that memories of childhood will always sustain his spirit. I share Wordsworth’s hope; I’ve kept all my clothes, even the dirty ones, from my younger days. On quiet nights, when the sparkling moon is still, I put on the shorts and t-shirt that I wore on my first day of kindergarten. Then I take my little plastic bucket and spade and I stand in my neighbour’s sandpit. Then I soil myself and scream for my mother. Eventually she comes to my aid, leads me home, washes me and tucks me into bed.

Morning Routines

There is a tunnel under my bed that leads down to the stale earth beneath the house where I live. Sometimes I like to curl naked on that cold ground with my cheek pressed tightly against it; I can hear the earth’s laboured breathing, its wheezing and muffled whispers. And I ask it questions, questions about the spiders and the rats, about sickness and age. Sometimes I ask it to help me with the football tipping competition, but the old earth really isn’t so good at picking a winner.