I SSUE 3 A UGUST 4, 2009

T HE M ERRIWEATHER P OST
The number three has quite often been used throughout history
to describe a new movement that has altered the course of his-
tory: The Third Reich, The Third Rome, The Third Estate, The
Third Way and The Third Wave. Vladimir Lenin, who founded
The Third Communist International, died after his third stroke.
Only time will tell if The Third Merriweather Post will be a big
a fuck up as these. If these first three editions have sparked any
kind of creativity within then write them down and send them
to The Esteemed Madam. All contributions will be greeted
warmly, and remain entirely anonymous to all but Madam
Marjorie Merriweather Post. Please continue to forward this
collection of thoughts to your peers, and get them to email
merriweather@post.com for any past or future editions. Read
on.

S OMETHING H ORSES
I don’t really like to be around people I know all that often. Horses are fun,
Sometimes, but not all the time. It almost feels like I’m an actor You can put their hair in a bun,
in my own life when I’m playing the role of me in a group. Eve- They have long tails,
rything I do is what’s expected. I don’t know if that’s because Sometimes eat hay bails,
people who know you know what to expect, or if you only do They may be brown,
what you expect yourself to do when in the company of those King horses wear a crown.
you know. It may be improvising, but still loosely based on a Sometimes they run,
pre-determined script. But not when I’m alone, that’s when Some times they walk,
there are endless possibilities. I could be anything, or do any- But I don’t think they talk.
thing, all in my mind, there’s no one who knows what to expect Sometimes they neigh
because I don’t know anyone and no one knows me. I guess I doubt they ride in a sleigh.
that’s what being alone with your thoughts is; endless possibili- They do have a mane,
ties. But when others are around, there’s no time for thinking The horses do get trained.
those thoughts that come with solitary living, the great thoughts, Some are wild,
because there’s just listening and talking. Is being alone actually a Babies are foals not a child
bad feeling that we should shy away from, or are people just What if a horse came a little late
scared to be conscious of their mind? Is that what television, But that can’t stop me from say-
books and magazines are, escaping alone? But maybe being alone ing
all the time means you go a little crazy. I wonder, but I’m con- Every little horse is simply Great.
scious of wondering so nothings coming out.
T HIS H OUSE I S N OT A M OTEL
B LIND F AITH I took your picture down. I didn’t like the way your eyes
Usually when they linked hands sitting around the kitchen table, the would heap guilt on me. It began with a simple glare after I
little girl would close her eyes and smile, safe in the knowledge that spilt coffee on the couch. I said I was sorry, yet you continued
God was looking over them, providing the roof over their heads, to glare. Then there was the time I was watching porn on my
the food on the table and the love in the air. She was a good daugh- laptop and I came on the couch. Your eyes were a portrait of
ter; well behaved, polite and cute in her innocence. disappointment. I’m pretty sure I heard your eyes speak to
me that afternoon; “I’ve got nothing against you cumming on
She quite often drew praise from her teachers, my couch, but where is your imagination? The internet, I
her coaches, her minister and pretty much thought you were better than that.” I tried to plead my case
everyone else who came in contact with her but you didn’t understand my fascination with interracial anal
and her family, for her humility, her dedica- sex. I thought maybe there was a correlation between degrad-
tion and disturbingly, how attractive she was. ing your couch and you’re accusing eyes. I believed my prob-
Her innocence, as well as her faith, so obvious lems were solved when the couch disappeared during the last
and profound early in her life, was shattered hard rubbish collection, yet your disapproving stare only
in the instant she saw her father enter her bed- hardened. I hated you in death. I had no choice; it was either
room, the acrid stench of stale red wine and take your picture down or go on hating you and your judge-
cigarettes on his breath, a strange protrusion mental stare. The guilt remains and you don’t even have the
emanating from his boxer shorts… decency to look me in the eye.

The front of the house was
old. The occupants a little
younger. The street maybe
in-between. Either side of
the gates width, crumbling
once erect brick wall
swayed unhurriedly to the
brighter beat of passing
footsteps – and a pedestrian
quiet street it was. The
kindly council supplied bins,
lined out in colours like a
rainbow of dying product
advertising inspired dreams,
filled the front yard. At the
feet of the front gate lay a
length of string that ran to
the front doors oft turned
knob, providing directions
home for the drunken ma-
triarch, a landing strip of
sorts. This early evening
the string was quiet, the
matriarch nowhere to be
seen. From the in-between
street’s vantage orange light
shone through splayed cur-
tains, quietly illuminating
the rainbowed ensemble
beneath its sill.
Upstairs the child of the
house read with interest the
book that she’d earlier sto-
len from the city library.
Each day she made a deter-
mined effort to live up to
T HE M ERRIWEATHER P OST
S AY G OODBYE T O T HIS C ITY
her destitution and steal streets of Bordeaux to be She tried to drift back to
something that she felt repre- dropped, confused, into the sleep, but the sound of fuck-
sented her suppression. She stifled air of a dying suburban ing filled the house as The
didn’t care what it was. The house. The matriarch had Middle East’s debut EP was
day before she’d stolen a re- returned, and by the sound of reduced to nothing more than
placement table tennis net four heavy hoofed feet on a soundtrack for a blue movie
despite never having held a floorboards, she’d found her playing in an upstairs girls
table tennis paddle in her soul mate again, amongst the painful awoken night time
stealing adept fingers before. coasters and ashtrays of a beer hours.
‘Maybe I’ll steal the table infused public lounge room.
The new day kicked in the
next’, she thought, smiling in
‘Another momentary dad’, window of the upstairs girl of
daring. Her room was full of
the upstairs girl contem- the house and escorted the
her endeavours, her attempts
plated. ‘How many parts sun into her eyes like a presi-
of giving herself what cash
make a whole? How many dential security detail, pulling
never could. She drifted off
moments make time, make a apart her eyelids and diluting
to sleep dreaming of stealing a
life, make a fully fledged fa- her owlish pupils. Upon her
piece of Southern France as
ther to put my mothers over- focus returning she defiantly
the sound of The Middle
worked vagina to rest for a looked back at the daylight,
East’s debut EP filled her
while. If you can have several wishing to stare it into remis-
limbs with three part harmo-
soul mates’, she wondered, sion, back through her win-
nies.
‘does that mean you can have dow, back into the sun. Her
The oft-turned door knob several souls. Maybe that’s dreams were not yet finished.
turned once more followed what heartbreak is, the divid- She tussled out of bed and
by a shuddering door quickly ing of souls so that you be- found her glasses, stood into
closing sound as the front come less and less a fully her slippers and scared the
fence swayed a little quicker fledged person, eventually condensation off the window
and crumbled a little more. turning into nothing but an with a yawn, as the anger of a
The loud hum of the buzzed empty shell, or a crumbling dream stolen by a rotating
too long fridge that stood near erect fence, or a red, earth escaped through parted
lengthy in the kitchen stam- 1991 Commodore going to lips. She had to get moving,
mered from the intrusion as a the nearest offer. Maybe had to leave the house before
cut-out piece of newspaper that’s what my mother is, her new momentary dad
print from the cars section of ONO, and no one has ever emerged from her mother.
the Merriweather Trading offered her much. Or maybe She dressed herself, removed
Post slipped the grasp of its it means we have no soul, that a couple of twenties from her
magnetic host. Floating awk- soul mate is just a term peo- mum’s purse and with a prac-
wardly to the floor, circled in ple use to describe how they ticed hand quietly turned the
red, a description of a car feel about another person oft-turned doorknob to walk
read something like, ‘For because no other term will between the no longer erect
Sale. 1991 Red Commodore, do’. The upstairs girl began brick walls that smothered
GC, lmd ks, $2,000, ONO. to wonder if the more she the front gate and stepped
Contact Nicolas, stole the more men would softly onto the in-between
042839493N’. The sound of steal a part of her mother’s street that in no way re-
the shuddering door, a stam- soul. She secretly hoped that minded her of the cobbled
mering fridge and a floating if she continued to steal streets of Bordeaux. She
piece of newspaper found its maybe her mother would turned to the right, glanced
way up the stairs, waking the disappear. But then again, back at the condensation still
upstairs child of the house and there’s nothing to steal from cowering on the sill of her
lifting her from the cobbled an already ransacked shop. upstairs window and then
 S AY G OODBYE T O T HIS C ITY C ONTINUED ... T HE M ERRIWEATHER P OST

made her way to the bus stop. ahead, watching the raindrops eating an apple’. The upstairs reached hand that demanded
descend unaccompanied and girl looked at the man, looked the bottle. The stoop
Her arrival in the city coincided
leave enmeshed in a waltz of at the waltzing raindrops dweller placed the bottle in
with that of a rain cloud that,
sorts. ‘Do you play chess?’ dancing away in the drain, her right hand and took her
feeling heavy, released some of
noised the man of smell and looked back at the man, and left hand in his, as he led her
its excess baggage. The upstairs
squint. The upstairs girl didn’t continued her silence. ‘Do out into the descending
girl of the house took cover in
answer a question that seemed you want to play chess?’ he drops of rain. They passed a
the already occupied stoop of a
not to be addressed to anyone, continued, as he removed a car being issued a ticket.
doorway. Pressed into the
except the waltzing rain. The bottle of rum from his jacket The stoop dweller appeared
stoops corner a man of smell,
stoop dweller continued to pocket, touched it to his lips to know the ticket inspec-
length and dark clothing
dwell, ignoring the disregard she and let the body warm liquid tor. ‘Hey William you cre-
squinted straight ahead without
paid to his words as he contin- fill his gullet and briefly re- tin, how many tickets you
acknowledging the watered
ued to talk. ‘You know, this move the squint from his eyes. written today?’
wallflower that arrived unin-
guy told me once that chess is Her answer didn’t come in
vited to join him. There the To be continued…
like medicine for the mind. the form of a mouthed expres-
two stood, looking straight
Playing chess once a day is like sion, but rather in her out-

Last Ride isn’t exactly the feel good hit
of summer, or winter, or any season
for that matter. It’s dark, intense and
violent yet interspersed by moments
of warmth and caring. We first find
Kev (Hugo Weaving) and his son,
Chook (Tom Russell), in a car, driving
at night. The mood of the shot is dark
and sombre, a feel that is present
throughout the film. Kev is obviously a
fairly rough character judging from
appearances, and when he emerges
from the bathroom at an outback-
roadside diner with his hair cut and his
impressive beard reduced to a little
more than three-day growth, it’s safe
to assume that the boys are on the run
from something.
Hugo Weaving is incredible as
Chook’s violent father, who may or
may not have an alcohol problem. His
moods swings are as frequent as they
are violent, and as the film progresses
we see that violence has played a big
part in his life. From a disturbed child-
hood and a bad relationship with his
own father to spending time in jail as
an adult, we see that Kev is a disturbed
character with many issues. Despite
his sullen and aggressive attitude to-
wards life, Kev is also capable of mo-
ments of incredible tenderness. The
L AST R IDE
second scene of Kev teaching his son to swim in
an outback swimming hole is one of the most
touching scenes I’ve seen.
It becomes obvious that Kev loves his son
dearly, and is regretting dragging his son along
on this ride gone bad and therefore goes to ex-
traordinary lengths to protect him from the
truth behind the situation that they’re in; in
essence to protect his innocence. Yet these
sudden, drastic mood swings leave Chook con-
fused and disillusioned by his father, and he
spends a lot of time trying to figure out who his
father really is and how he can get them out of
this situation that has clearly gone wrong.
The film is punctuated by long silences, which
allows you to view the Australian out-
back in all its desolation and its sense
of foreboding, trying to figure out
what’s going on in the minds of the
two characters as they sit in yet an-
other stolen car on a destination to
nowhere in particular.
Despite the ending being somewhat
predictable, the upsides of this film far
outweigh this. The character of Kev is
absolutely intriguing. He’s seems so
conflicted by the need to live up to the
stereotypical Australian male; tough,
uncompromising and unemotional, yet
he feels compelled to give his son the
Father/son relationship that was so
sorely missing in his own childhood
regardless of his own shortcomings as
a person and a parent. The strength
and innocence of Chook is also inter-
esting to watch unfold. While these
two virtues are seemingly at odds with
one another, as the film progresses
you almost see Chook grow up and see
the world in a different way. The
aforementioned outback scenery is an
amazing backdrop to a harrowing yet
moving film and is used beautifully to
almost emphasize the ideas within:
That within the darkest, most desolate
places or people, there can be mo-
ments of absolute beauty and love.
 C HICKEN P IE C ONVERSATION
600g Chicken 1 red Capsicum Hello
3 cloves Garlic, crushed 1 bunch Broccoli Hey
2 Carrots 1 Onion, diced How are you?
2 packets Cheese sauce 1 Eggplant Aah, I don’t know
200g Mushrooms French Onion Soup Mix How can you not know, cant you feel
Shortcrust Pastry Baking Paper/Oil Spray I don’t know, sometimes I feel like my heads lying to
me. How are you?
Olive Oil Salt and Pepper, pinch of each
I’m good, just been doing the same old same old.
 Pre heat oven to 180 C. Heat oil in a large frying pan over medium Nothing much changes around here
heat and add diced onion. Add salt and pepper and cook for 2 mins. Add
crushed garlic and cook for another 3 mins, or until onion starts to sof- Sometimes I get the feeling that nothing ever changes
ten. anywhere.
Maybe that’s why everyone misses home, because it
 Dice chicken into small cubes then add to onion and garlic. Cook
never changes
for 3-4 mins until golden brown, stirring frequently. It doesn’t matter if
the chicken isn’t cooked all the way through, as will continue to cook in But not everyone has a home. How do you miss
the oven. something you don’t have?
 Cut all vegetables up into small pieces and add to the chicken. Well you can see that other people have it, I guess that
Cover and cook on High for 5-6 mins, until vegetables start to soften. makes it easy to miss
You don’t want anything to burn, so reduce heat if too hot. Add cheese I’d rather not miss anything
sauce and French onion soup mix to the frying pan, and stir through.
But sometimes you don’t have a choice
 Line the bottom and sides of a round baking dish with baking paper. It’s a good reason to never love anyone
Alternatively, you can coat the baking dish with olive oil spray. Lay one
sheet of pastry across the bottom of the dish. With a fork, stab heaps of Everything’s a good reason to never love anyone,
holes in the pastry base, and bake for 8 mins. This prepares the pastry especially the people you love, never love them. But
for the mixture. Once this is done, now cover the sides of the dish with then it’s always too late. You can never go back cause
more pastry, allowing to overflow the top of the dish you can never forget.

 Now add the pie filling, ensuring that it is well mixed together.
Cover with another sheet of pastry and use any spare bits of pastry to fill
any holes around the outside. Bake for 35-45 mins in preheated oven, or
until the lid of the pie is crusty.
 Remove the pie from the dish and allow to cool for an hour to let
the mixture thicken up. Tip: It’s better for the cheese sauce to be too
dry than too runny; otherwise the filling won’t stick together when
serving.

T HE E YES AND E ARS OF M ADAM M ERRIWEATHER

Galaxie 500 - On Fire Jack London - Call of the Wild
Grizzly Bear - Veckatimest Joseph Heller - Catch 22
Big Star - Third / Sister Lovers Nicole Krauss - The History of Love
Drive By Truckers - Brighter Than Creations Dark Leo Tolstoy - Anna Karenin
Sunset Rubdown - Dragonslayer Aldous Huxley - Brave New World
Rural Alberta Project - Hometowns Irvine Welsh - Glue
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