The men who don't fit in.

 I read Truman Capote's In Cold Blood months ago now.

And it is a story that has stuck around in my mind since... In particular, one poem keeps popping up in my thoughts. That's a pretty clear sign that it has had a fairly profound influence over me. 

So in realising this, I thought I'd go ahead and share it.

I hope you find it as moving as I did.

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
 A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
 And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
 And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
 And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
 They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
 And they want the strange and new.

Frankie Goes

Frankie is now a contributor on the wicked travel-writing site, She Goes.
I've got to admit, I feel a little bit spesh seeing my name splashed across the home page of a website I've been a fan of for yonks.

So here it is ya'll - the first of many, I hope!

Frankie's first submission on SheGoes.com: Mid - Year Resolutions.

bit.ly/fanCta

Ode to the Witty

I've always admired witty people; those who can pull out some perfectly crafted, sharp line on call. It's kind of an art-form, wit. And it's definitely not something that can be learned... To always be "on the ball" as they say, is an awesome talent. You have to be completely balanced and totally aware of what's going on around you. I can't carry a cup of tea from the kitchen to my bedroom without pouring it down my front.

I think I've developed a bit of a complex about this. I so want to be that person. And every time I realise something has slipped past me - which has happened more times than I'd like to admit - I want to kick myself in the face.

I've often listened silently as these marvellous creatures work; observed as they construct their verbal masterpieces, all the while exuding this aura of, I don't know... knowingness, I guess it must be. I stare, blank-faced, probably drooling out the corner of my unmoving mouth - in awe. I think nothing is so impressive as someone who has their wits about them.

Meet-cute

Ever had a day, or even just a moment, that felt like it was out of a movie script?

I know I've had a ton. I've had experiences that were "so Seinfeld," or right out of Sex and the City. I swear, I've even had a few days that resembled Twilight.

The other afternoon a 'friend' of mine - who i'll leave unnamed simply because this story is a little embarrassing - was coming home from uni and as she walked down the congested street, she saw four or so bright blue tee-shirts up ahead. She didn't need to read the branding on their shirts to recognise who they were. Passersby were gravitating in the opposite direction with their heads facing the ground, and would fling their phones to their ear as soon as a blue tee-shirt stepped toward them with an extended hand. They were charity workers, recruiting advocates for their cause. My friend, picked up her uni reader and glued her eyes to the text, reading one line over and over, glancing ahead only to stay aware of the human traffic rushing about her. She passed the first three tee-shirts unnoticed, but just as she went to past the last of the four, a hand was shoved in front of her chest and an English accent asked "Hi, how are you today?"

Fuck

She took the English hand. And turned to face its owner, saying a sloppy "Hhhyeah i'm good," as she tried to think of an excuse to leave. The guy asked her if she knew what the largest killer of children in Africa was. She didn't. He explained that is was diarrhoea, as a result of unclean water, and went on to tell her about the sub-standard living conditions of these children. Mid-way through his speech she looked up at his face and noticed he had these beautiful, clear blue eyes. Maybe three minutes later, she was signing up for daily donations.

Pen and Paper

I had no speech, so I wrote.

I wrote until the pen ran dry and my mind was quiet.

John's Mother

Today I saw the mother of a school-mate who passed away about three years ago. She was washing her car. This was the first time I'd seen her since John's funeral, and until today, every time I had walked past their house I'd imagined her as the broken woman I saw on that grey day in January.

Ignorant as I know I must sound, it always surprises me to see how resilient our bodies are when it comes to grief. (I say bodies because I won't even pretend to have a clue about what is going on in her head.) I'm talking about physical functionality, here. I mean, when you've lost your only son, how on earth do you get out of bed the next morning? How do you step one foot in front of the other?

In my ignorance I've always imagined that when hit with something as destructive as that, everything just stops. And so watching John's mother today, I was mesmerized.What was she thinking? It's very likely that it could have just been that the car looked like shit and needed a clean. Maybe her days are clouded with visions of John and his mess of blond curls. Or maybe not... I really don't know. I never will. But I'll always think of her as I walk down that quiet street in Burwood where a young boy with a skateboard once lived.

Places I have been.