tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-195631822024-02-06T21:26:28.169-08:00Kaitlyn Plyleypoet, editor, writer, performerKaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-26044600789611285362011-04-10T11:25:00.001-07:002011-04-10T11:25:51.565-07:00I've moved to WordPress!Sorry Blogger! Head over to my new blog at <a href="http://www.kaitlynplyley.wordpress.com/">www.kaitlynplyley.wordpress.com</a>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-6380686359358146402011-04-09T12:20:00.000-07:002011-04-09T12:20:35.100-07:00Man Gives Birth?<div style="text-align: left;"><i>*This article I wrote about gender reassignments was published in Pelican magazine, August 2009 - but not a whole lot has changed since then, so here it is again. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><span style="font-size: large;">Man Gives Birth?</span></div><br />
About a month ago, a man named Thomas Beatie (dubbed 'the Pregnant Man' by the media) gave birth to his baby daughter in the USA. This story sparked a highly intriguing headline: 'Man Gives Birth'. Bad news for women – giving birth was the one thing we could claim over the male gender. Men get higher salaries, the Presidential candidacy, and standing up while they pee – and now, apparently, they can get pregnant as well. But … is Thomas Beatie really a man? He was born a woman, then went through a gender reassignment and had his gender legally changed to male. However, he kept his female reproductive organs. So, at least in a biological sense, it was a female giving birth. Yet Beatie is legally a man. Confused much?<br />
<br />
In an article that Beatie wrote for an American newspaper, he repeatedly affirmed that throughout the pregnancy his ‘gender identity as male [was] constant’. I find it interesting that a transgender person such as Beatie can so emphatically claim a fixed gender identity. What defines the male gender? Beatie has had his female breasts removed, and has taken testosterone to grow facial hair, but kept his female reproductive organs. So does this mean that every woman of flat chest and hairy upper lip is actually teetering on the edge of the male gender? Or, that any man who cannot grow a full beard is not a man? (I’m sure there are numerous Facebook groups with opinions on that.) Gender is not governed by indisputable boundaries, not for anyone, and the issue of gender identity can become confusing when you are trying to shoehorn each unique individual into one of two categories. Philosopher Judith Butler stated that the body cannot serve as a foundation for gender definition; there are simply too many different kinds of bodies for us to categorize all of them into 'male' or 'female'. When you consider gender as a fluid concept, it becomes easier to accept a wider range of gender identities.<br />
<br />
In Oregon, where Thomas Beatie lives, he is legally recognised as a man. Despite this, he reportedly still has trouble convincing some of his neighbours to recognise this. However, the media coverage of the Beatie story has consistently referred to him in male pronouns. Since the story came to the media’s attention, even the most sceptical headlines said 'Man Claims To Be Pregnant,' instead of 'Pregnant Woman Claims To Be A Man'. Looking closer to home, how does our own state treat its transgender community? If Thomas Beatie were a Western Australian and had delivered his baby in this state, would the papers have announced 'Man Gives Birth', or would WA have denied Beatie’s status as a man? It is true that in the last decade WA has radically improved its legislation with regards to the LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender) community. However, many of WA’s transgender residents are still stranded in legal limbo. It all comes down to the question of defining gender, at least in terms of the law. Under the Gender Reassignment Act 2000, a person hoping to apply for a recognition of gender change must have taken on the 'characteristics' of their adopted gender. The Act defines gender characteristics as 'the physical characteristics by virtue of which a person is identified as male or female.' Whether this extends to include such physical traits as muscle size or hair length is not specified; in fact, the Act’s definitions are extremely vague. At one point in Australian history, it was commonly considered a male characteristic to wear trousers. That social viewpoint has clearly changed; what else could change? Who decides which characteristics belong to each gender?<br />
<br />
In 2006, New York City proposed a new rule, to allow people to legally change their gender without medical alteration or surgery. The intent of the new legislation was to let people decide for themselves which gender they are. In WA, however, in order to legally change your gender, you must have undergone 'a medical or surgical procedure … to alter the genitals and other gender characteristics of a person.' Gender reassignment procedures can be extremely expensive and painful, and are not within everyone’s means. Some transgender people don’t view surgical alterations as necessary. Is gender, therefore, a personal choice or governed by our physiology? If it were the latter, where would that leave Thomas Beatie? <br />
<br />
So far, in this article, I have used the word 'gender' twenty-four times. Often, when you have used a word so often within a short space of time, it begins to lose its meaning. Perhaps gender is beginning to lose its meaning and its importance – after all, why are we so concerned with gender? In making it difficult for people to change their gender, what is our society so jealously guarding? For many people, an ideal world would consist of men and women having equal opportunities and an end to gender discrimination. For decades, activist groups have been fighting for this very cause. In practicality, gender discrimination still occurs in Australia. For example, women in the army or navy are not permitted to fight in direct combat, on the basis that their physiology is inherently weaker. Where do transgender people fit into this? Could a man who was born a woman fight in combat? <br />
<br />
If everyone was considered equal regardless of their gender, it wouldn’t matter which gender we claimed. Thomas Beatie is a man who wanted to have a baby, so he did. As Beatie said himself, 'Wanting to have a biological child is neither a male nor female desire, but a human desire.' While Beatie’s pregnancy may not quite be a biology-defying miracle (some women may have been thinking, 'Damn, so I can’t get my man to go through labour for me, after all'), his story’s worldwide exposure has shown that our society’s view on gender is gradually broadening. And that, in itself, is a miracle. Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-27977478443773149332011-04-06T09:59:00.000-07:002011-04-06T09:59:18.697-07:00Follow @NYWM_waNational Young Writers' Month kicks off in June 2011, encouraging all under-25s around Australia to get writing!<br />
<br />
As the WA Ambassador for NYWM, I'll be spreading the word around our great state, and tweeting as I go. Hit up <a href="http://www.twitter.com/NYWM_wa">Twitter</a> and follow @NYWM_wa. <br />
<br />
West Is Best. Wesside.Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-60749420837487600852011-04-05T13:09:00.000-07:002011-04-05T13:24:27.737-07:00There's Nothing Wrong With Me<i>This article was published in Pelican magazine, November 2010.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">There's Nothing Wrong With Me</span><br />
Kaitlyn Plyley defends a controversial body shape.</div><br />
Recently in Australia, as part of an initiative to improve national body image, the Government ruled that our fashion industry must refrain from using models with dangerously low BMIs. In the media frenzy over 'healthy body image', certain body shapes are being discriminated against. People are calling for 'real women' to appear on catwalks and in catalogues - by which they mean rounder, curvier, shorter women. Are tall, leggy, slender women not real? If you cut us, do we not bleed? For too long, thin girls have been discriminated against, suffering taunts about their weight and comments that they should 'eat something'. This cannot go on.<br />
<br />
I weigh about fifty-seven kilos, and according to my body mass index I am dangerously underweight. I do not diet. I do not have a punishing exercise regime. In fact, I spend most of my spare time lolling on the sofa, watching The IT Crowd and eating salted peanuts. I’m not <i>trying</i> to be thin - I just am. <br />
<br />
As if being thin wasn't enough, I'm also quite tall. At 185cm, I stand head and shoulders above the average Australian woman, and around ten centimetres taller than the average Australian man. My height is almost always the first thing people remark on when they meet me. I also get the occasional unsolicited comment from people on the street. (The term 'BFG' comes up a lot.) One guy tried to pick me up in a nightclub by whispering into my ear, 'Hey, you're really tall.' It wasn't even a compliment - it was just an observation. People always seem to feel compelled to point out my obvious physical difference. <br />
<br />
Think of those poor skinny little girls in the schoolyard, being ostracised by their curvaceous peers just because they're 'different'. They dread swimming carnivals because swimsuits draw attention to their bony shoulder blades. Every lunchtime, they stuff hedgehog slices into their faces, hoping to one day have big thighs like Beyonce. But there's no fighting the inexorable force of their quick metabolism. Who will give these beanpoles a voice? Won't someone please think of the skinny girls??<br />
<br />
My teenage years were a harrowing experience. At high school I had to endure nicknames like Twiggy and Stick Insect. It got even worse when I went through my unfortunate 'punk' phase: with the combination of short spiky hair, band T-shirts and teenage-boy body, I was often mistakenly addressed as 'sir' by people. 'I'm a girl,' I wailed. 'A GIRL!'<br />
<br />
Later, I grew more comfortable with my body. At nineteen, I spent a summer in the US, eating my way up to sixty-two kilos. It is the heaviest I've ever been; it was the happiest time of my life. But all good things must come to an end and, for all my good intentions, I just couldn't keep the weight on. Back home in Australia, the temptations of muesli, lean meats and fresh vegetables were all too great. I even started jogging. Before I knew it, I was back down to fifty-five kilos (sixteen kilos less than the average weight for Australian women). But it's important to be true to yourself, so I have to own who I am. <i>I am a thin girl</i>. God, it feels so good to say that!<br />
<br />
A lot of women wouldn't feel comfortable with me talking about my weight. When women get together, conversation often turns to body image; girls lament their pudgy bellies and jiggly arms, or hours spent in 'Body Pump' (whatever <i>that</i> is). But if I voice a concern that my stomach is not completely flat anymore, I'm met with groans and scathing glares. The thin girl is not allowed to express body issues. She can't refuse a second helping of dessert without being accused of having anorexia. One time, I turned down a slice of chocolate cake (because I'm genuinely allergic to chocolate), and the other women rolled their eyes at each other. 'Oh piss off, skinny bitch,' they roared. Must I bear this ridicule? I would never rebuff another woman based on her weight, so why is it acceptable for other women to judge me thus? 'Skinny bitch' is a particularly spurious insult, since it implies that all women of slight build must be rude. Pffft - whatever, jerks! <br />
<br />
I'm aware that women of larger build face many challenges, but being a tall, thin girl has its challenges as well. Shopping for clothes is a hassle: it's as if mainstream clothes manufacturers think that as women get taller, they get exponentially wider. Knee-high boots aren't an option, since they simply flap around my chicken legs, and don't even talk to me about buying jeans. Fashion dilemmas aside, there are also physical disadvantages. I am hungry literally all of the time, and cold, because I lack a natural layer of insulation between my skin and my bones. If I were lost in the wilderness, the only thing between me and starvation would be the small store of fat in my tiny backside. I wouldn't last long.<br />
<br />
I'm tired of the media telling me about 'real women'. I am a real woman. I'm abnormally tall, and naturally slender, and I'm fine with that. Our fashion industry is changing: Australia is working towards having a popular culture that celebrates every body type. It's definitely a change for the better. For too long, too many people have been made to feel that their natural body shape is not good enough. So please, don't punish the skinny girls - their lesser weight doesn't make them lesser people. Be thin, be proud! <i>I am a thin girl</i>. And there's nothing wrong with that.Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-87480125370916681372011-02-18T21:57:00.000-08:002011-03-31T23:32:59.614-07:00Video of my first Barefaced Story!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/S0sLuujqT74?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-44358510422386217982011-02-16T01:24:00.000-08:002011-02-16T01:24:55.782-08:00Barefaced Storytelling at The Blue Room!I was lucky enough to take part in the Blue Room's "NYC Storytelling" workshop, which culminates in the <a href="http://www.lowdown.net.au/Article/BarefacedbringNYCstorytellingtoPerth">Barefaced Storytelling</a> nights this month. I've seen many of the storytellers perform already, and they are unfailingly awesome. The best part is that all of the stories are true - and some of these peeps have gotten up to some crazy stuff. <br />
<br />
I'll be performing my story this Thursday night (8.30pm at The Blue Room). It's called "My Muse" and it reveals how utterly uncool I was in high school. Oh dear.<br />
<br />
KPKaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-54047449903227124322011-01-20T05:13:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:25:11.335-08:00I Am The Thin Woman<blockquote><i>Inspired by Zan Ross's slam piece at the 2010 WA Poetry Slam.</i><br />
<br />
I am the thin woman. The skinny woman.<br />
I can sidle through narrow spaces,<br />
and count all my ribs.<br />
<br />
I am the tall woman. The long woman.<br />
People say "Oh! Is it raining? You'd be the first to know."<br />
I have to order my jeans from a special warehouse, interstate,<br />
because I want jeans that reach all the way down to my feet.<br />
<br />
I am the shallow woman.<br />
I am very, very shallow.<br />
And because I lack depth, that is as far as my self-analysis has gotten.<br />
<br />
I am the discreet woman. The sexy woman.<br />
I will laugh at your dirty jokes<br />
and pretend not to know what you mean when you say<br />
"Want to come in for a coffee?"<br />
<br />
I am the watcher of daytime TV -<br />
it's a boring job, but somebody's got to do it.<br />
<br />
I am the thin woman. The skinny woman.<br />
And yes, I <i>will </i>have something to eat -<br />
but not because you told me to.</blockquote>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-51926602184018240982010-12-07T17:35:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:26:11.850-08:00Retrospect<blockquote>Little do I know, though I'm no Picasso,<br />
I'm about to go through my own Blue Period.<br />
A myriad of things are about to upheave my life<br />
'cause I don't yet know that all is not quite right.<br />
<br />
Right now, I think I've got it all sussed out:<br />
got a job, got a plan, got a car and a man. <br />
Within weeks, I'll have watched all these pipedreams burn,<br />
but right now I'm thinking it's finally my turn.<br />
Little do I know.<br />
<br />
Though I'm free of my degree, at the age of twenty-three<br />
the rest of my twenties stretch out in front of me.<br />
After years of stringent study, I think I can agree -<br />
little do I know.<br />
<br />
My loving boyfriend, I'll find out that he just pretended.<br />
In two weeks, on Facebook he will be defriended.<br />
What I thought was fraught with promise will soon be ended,<br />
but little do I know.<br />
<br />
Why I'm tired in the mornings, nearly soldered to my bed,<br />
why I sobbed right through a movie when I should have laughed instead,<br />
why I can't get the hurtful things he said out of my head -<br />
little do I know. <br />
<br />
Though I'm no Picasso, I'm about to go through my own Blue Period.<br />
A myriad of things are about to change my life,<br />
'cause sometimes it takes a lot of wrongs to make things right.<br />
But, little do I know.</blockquote>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-30043524705078782912010-12-05T18:13:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:24:41.888-08:00Australian Poetry Slam 2010<div style="color: black;">Read <b><a href="http://kaitlynplyley.blogspot.com/2010/10/bogan-rap.html">"The Bogan Rap"</a></b> - the slam piece I performed at the Sydney Theatre Company last night, as part of the Australian Poetry Slam.</div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">It was such an amazing night, with so many moving performances. I felt lucky to be able to watch all the finalists perform. One of the highlights had to be watching Kamahl perform "Invictus", and having him later congratulate me on my performance. And that voice - it is mesmerizing.</div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">The results came in, and Perth didn't win, but as <b><a href="http://antipoet.blogspot.com/">Allan Boyd</a></b> always says - the real winner was POETRY. ;)<br />
<br />
KP <i><br />
</i></div>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-30780202797123242582010-11-28T18:22:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:25:51.684-08:00Nothin' says "gangsta" like a carpark<div class="separator" style="clear: both; color: black; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgIXk-KuFZ-VhSPmhk5GKYtzID0YZC0Z1g5YVxVOwOsaDYGjLyvqkpUY0naOrRXvO_QsOyxsGDX0AOO_V33rnAOqPc8PgemhPTqU7bTdxyu2KpeZxPTVC0ywC14rXHEwYnsHr3/s1600/IMGP0138.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgIXk-KuFZ-VhSPmhk5GKYtzID0YZC0Z1g5YVxVOwOsaDYGjLyvqkpUY0naOrRXvO_QsOyxsGDX0AOO_V33rnAOqPc8PgemhPTqU7bTdxyu2KpeZxPTVC0ywC14rXHEwYnsHr3/s640/IMGP0138.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">Heading into the WA Slam Finals.</div>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-28419766229135462472010-11-28T18:11:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:26:59.783-08:00We're going to Sydney!<div style="color: black;">Fellow Perth poet David Vincent Smith and I will be representing WA in the <b><a href="http://australianpoetryslam.com/national-final">Australian Poetry Slam national finals</a> </b>this Sunday! We're flying over to Sydney to perform at the finals, which are being held at the Sydney Theatre Company. I can't wait to see all the poets from around Australia perform; it's sure to be a great night of spoken word. If you're in Sydney this weekend, check it out!</div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">KP</div>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-61683043538641101792010-11-10T16:38:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:27:42.797-08:00WA Poetry Slam finals next Thurs!<div style="color: black;">Come see the WA Poetry Slam finals next Thursday night - 18 November, 7pm at The Bakery (Northbridge). I'll be performing, along with all the other loverly WA finalists. It's going to be an interesting evening!</div><div style="color: black;"><b><a href="http://australianpoetryslam.com/waheats/">http://australianpoetryslam.com/waheats/</a></b></div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">KP</div>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-56665738189101787282010-11-01T09:05:00.000-07:002011-02-20T01:28:09.667-08:00KP and Byron, chattin' up the airwaves<div style="color: black;">Myself and my good friend <b><a href="http://www.myspace.com/a_damn_good_thrashing">Byron Bard</a></b> were invited into the plush red interior of <b><a href="http://www.rtrfm.com.au/">RTRFM</a></b> on the day of our slam heat, to talk about poetry and spit some words. You can listen to the podcast of the Morning Mag show <b><a href="http://www.rtrfm.com.au/restream/12452">here</a></b> (we were on at 11.32am, near the middle of the last quarter of the show - does that even make sense?). Fun times in radio!</div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">KP</div>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-15985073828147621592010-10-28T20:40:00.000-07:002011-02-20T01:28:30.072-08:00The Bogan Rap (lyrics)<blockquote>I'm here today to tell you about a man - you might know him.<br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He is every man lining up for The Shed in Northbridge</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and he is every man who still thinks Ben Cousins is a hero</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and he is every man with a southern cross tattoo on his shoulder.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He bears the cross on his shoulder but, christ, he's not Jesus</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">(though he may wear sandals wherever he pleases).</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">He's crackin' a can of coke and Jack Dan</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and lurching at me with his drink in his hand</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and I've seen him, leaning out his Commodore,</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">keening on me like I'm a common whore.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I've got class, man, I like a conversation.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Been to uni and got me an education.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yeah! This shit's tertiary, bro,</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and I think you should know</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">to use your head</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">use your head</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">use your head</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">use your head.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Like John Stuart Mill said,</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">SHOW BITCHEZ RESPECT.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Show bitches respect, show bitches respect,</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">like Johnny Mill said, show them bitches respect.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">...Uh, yeah, that's not quite what Mill said,</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">but you know what I meant,</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">though using the term 'bitch' was a detriment to my argument....</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">But I digress. Yes! Express my words with finesse.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Though this bogan everyman is causing me real stress,</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">'coz he's the loudest and the meanest and he's got cash, too,</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and he's traded up the flannel for Armani suits</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">so he's harder to find. But the state of his mind will divide</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">him from the other blokes every time that he gets blind.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">'Coz in his head, the world is neatly split into two -</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">so it's me and it's you</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">it's yours and it's mine</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">it's black and it's white</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">it's us and it's them and it's them and it's us</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and everyone owes him</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and it's not his fault</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and his only ambition in life</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">is to drink every weekend and have a hot wife.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Such is life! I guess this is</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">the life of his missus -</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">tradin' her freedom for his seldom kisses.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">So take your coke and your Jack</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">and a big step back,</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">'coz if you're crackin' on me, I feel sorry for ya, son.</div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I got 99 problems but a bogan ain't one.</div><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Hit me.</span></blockquote>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-26131831970675048472010-10-28T20:14:00.000-07:002011-02-20T01:28:53.585-08:00Through to the WA finals!<div style="color: black;">Last night I (and my gold jacket) won a heat of the WA Poetry Slam, for my performance of "The Bogan Rap" (I'll post it soon). It's the first slam I've ever won, so I'm pretty stoked! Now I'm through to the WA Finals, which are happening at the Bakery on Thurs 18 November.</div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">Joining me at the Finals will be my esteemed colleague, The Byron Bard. I urge you to check out his website, as he is a master craftsman of words. <a href="http://www.myspace.com/a_damn_good_thrashing"><b>http://www.myspace.com/a_damn_good_thrashing</b></a></div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">Werd,</div><div style="color: black;"><br />
</div><div style="color: black;">Kaitlyn</div>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-994826634980876732010-10-11T00:51:00.000-07:002011-02-20T01:31:20.753-08:00Video of my first Cottonmouth gig!<div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Check out the video of my Cottonmouth spot <b><a href="http://cottonmouth.org.au/2010/10/cottonmouth_xviii_kaitlyn_plyl.html">here</a></b>.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">It features my poems "No men are islands, but some women are", "Spheres", and my first ever original rap.</span></span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">I am most proud of my gold jacket, which I think is the classiest item of clothing I own.</span></span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="color: black; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">Check out all the other rad performers on <b><a href="http://www.cottonmouth.org.au/blog/">Cottonmouth's blog</a></b>, and seriously, go to Cottonmouth, it's a great event.</span></span></div><div><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span">KP </span></span></div>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-15859108551708624062010-04-19T20:32:00.000-07:002011-02-20T01:31:43.565-08:00No men are islands, but some women are.<blockquote>John Donne may have stated that no man is an island, but I’m sure that many women have felt like islands: lonely specks on the horizon, being lashed by rough seas. Gazing out across an empty ocean, waiting to be rescued. Ladies, if we could just see far enough, we would see that each island is just a stone’s throw from another. We are a sprawling archipelago of single women. <br />
<br />
John Donne was right, though. No man is an island. Not the single men, anyway – they are driftwood. Floating in the seas, free but equally alone. Sometimes they wash up on an island, at the feet of a stranded female. Tired of the monotony of her empty beach, and of always drinking her coconut juice alone, the woman may be tempted to grab onto whatever piece of wood floats by. But we must be resolved. We must busy ourselves about the island, cooking fish over an open fire and even talking to volleyballs, because it’s better than settling for an eternity of drifting in the cold ocean, clinging uncertainly to a slippery bit of driftwood. <br />
<br />
Sit on the beach, light your signal fire, and wait for your ship to come. Ladies, your ship is coming. And even if it passes you by, at least you’ll still be on your very own island, standing on solid ground. It may be lonely sometimes, but it’s yours.</blockquote>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-72444855464614258042010-04-19T20:30:00.000-07:002011-02-20T01:31:59.488-08:00Spheres<blockquote>He pushed the cup around the counter.<br />
<br />
‘Of course I like my life,’<br />
he told the tabletop.<br />
His grave eyes narrowed,<br />
imploring me to stop.<br />
<br />
He never smiled with all his face.<br />
<br />
Opened up his law-books<br />
and recited every word.<br />
I put to him a question,<br />
my zeal yet undeterred.<br />
<br />
‘Don’t we all want something better?’<br />
<br />
'On this flawed bit of earth,<br />
in this bit of human mire,<br />
isn’t everything we do<br />
motivated by desire?<br />
<br />
'A higher realm, a holier place…<br />
<br />
'Some medieval men<br />
saw the universe in spheres<br />
that ground out divine sounds<br />
too perfect for our ears.<br />
<br />
'No one said that heaven was here.'<br />
<br />
He shrugged and shook his head.<br />
I knew my point was lost.<br />
Deep dissatisfaction comes<br />
from a chasm never crossed.<br />
<br />
He never thought that heaven was here.</blockquote>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-6707972487110764582010-04-07T05:42:00.000-07:002011-02-20T01:32:14.291-08:00Driving<blockquote>I can feel sleep creeping upon me,<br />
threatening with oblivion.<br />
My mind fights it like an ageing despot <br />
refusing to retire, to become irrelevant,<br />
convinced that the world will<br />
fall to pieces in its absence.<br />
I lean back in the passenger’s seat<br />
and my mind whirrs on, unchecked.<br />
<br />
Clouds sail on an urgent wind,<br />
in the middle space between<br />
the human scale and the infinite.<br />
A shadow leaps onto a wall,<br />
and for a moment all the lines are clear.<br />
Then it is snatched away, and there is <br />
only the blur of concrete.<br />
<br />
We drive until it is dark,<br />
until the street lights wink on.<br />
The river’s black water betrays<br />
the fluorescent inverted world.<br />
Ruby, sapphire strata <br />
stretch down to the depths,<br />
spearing away from the land.<br />
<br />
The overhead lights stripe<br />
the dashboard yellow, flicking along <br />
with metronome precision.<br />
At the sound of street rushing <br />
past beneath my feet,<br />
my eyes close and I doze<br />
like a fussing baby held close<br />
by a tired mother.<br />
<br />
Between slow, lengthening blinks,<br />
I peer at the scenes swinging past.<br />
A couple weaves its way<br />
towards the city centre,<br />
pinky fingers linked between them.<br />
They have the languid gait of lovers.<br />
Seagulls are wheeling in the air,<br />
rising like a pale cloud<br />
behind the darkness.<br />
A man runs a hand through his hair,<br />
standing with feet apart at the bus stop.<br />
<br />
Glancing to my right,<br />
I watch the capable hands<br />
guiding the steering wheel.<br />
Then, just the right song<br />
crosses the radio.<br />
The world eases by outside,<br />
confident in itself.<br />
Reassured by the constant motion,<br />
my mind gives up control, slows,<br />
and finally drifts into oblivion.</blockquote>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-33756919861849566132010-02-17T05:19:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:32:29.781-08:00Written at Janet Jackson's Poetry Workshop<blockquote>The TV starts to blur as my brain fizzes<br />
with the bleak thoughts of a quiet Saturday night.<br />
Tipped sideways on the couch with a downturn mouth,<br />
I wish I’d gone out.<br />
Over the soft sounds of <span style="font-style: italic;">Star Wars</span>,<br />
the Chinese New Year roars from my housemate’s room.<br />
Deep in my personal gloom, I swallow the bitter taste<br />
of acrimony. Because he’s really alright,<br />
and he sat up all night with us on our New Year’s Eve.<br />
I quickly shovel biscuits into my face<br />
to stifle the growth of protests in my throat,<br />
and reflect that <span style="font-style: italic;">Empire</span> really is the best.</blockquote>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-60084079920977205182010-02-11T18:35:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:32:52.330-08:00the woman / the man<blockquote>The woman crossed one thigh over the other.<br />
One red pump sat on the floor<br />
while the other rested in the air.<br />
Slowly, she slid her naked heel<br />
out of the hard, sleek shoe<br />
and slid it back in.<br />
<br />
The man reached behind his head<br />
and grabbed the fabric,<br />
pulling off his jumper.<br />
For one moment his shirt lifted too<br />
and exposed<br />
the soft skin beneath.</blockquote>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-82061989624155104612010-02-10T18:29:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:33:49.842-08:00Home<blockquote>After all the photos had been filed<br />
and the passport carefully stowed away<br />
and the last bag unpacked<br />
and the last shirt washed and folded,<br />
she stood in her bedroom and looked around.<br />
<br />
On instinct, she picked up her keys<br />
and turned to go home,<br />
half a second before she remembered<br />
that she was already there.<br />
<br />
But sitting on the edge of her bed<br />
with the sheets she'd picked out<br />
and her books on the shelf<br />
and her pictures on the wall,<br />
<br />
she'd never felt more homesick in her life.</blockquote><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Published on </span>AustralianReader.comKaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-65128326426237559412010-02-10T18:12:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:34:15.616-08:00Tarot Lady<blockquote>She chequered the cards on the fold-out table<br />
and spread them wide before me.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Choose five,</span> she said, watching close.<br />
I wondered what I was choosing.<br />
<br />
Eyes on my face, she told me my fate.<br />
Shuffle, shuffle. New job, new home.<br />
Travel. Puzzles. Shuffle. Shuffle.<br />
I nodded along; nothing was wrong.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">I see a new man is dealt in your hand.</span><br />
A lover, a saint. A hospital stay.<br />
A car crash, a hero, a Taurus, a Leo.<br />
A puzzle. A puzzle. A shuffle. A shuffle.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Happy!</span> She said. And I twitched my head.<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">You will be happy, </span>she piously said,<br />
no doubt a line for every person she read,<br />
but still I wondered.</blockquote>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-41915519504396264062010-02-10T06:43:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:34:33.141-08:00Before<blockquote>Before we were together<br />
I never realised<br />
how many cars on the road<br />
look just like yours.</blockquote>Kaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19563182.post-33726756681472988262010-02-09T00:16:00.000-08:002011-02-20T01:35:07.874-08:00Luxury<blockquote>We climbed out of the 4WD<br />
and I was thinking about my shoes<br />
or my hair frizzing in the humid heat.<br />
I don't remember the drive there.<br />
I was eighteen.<br />
<br />
The locals gathered shyly, hovering<br />
in the shade of their dirt houses.<br />
I felt awkward, morbid<br />
with First World guilt.<br />
The adults hung back,<br />
speaking only to my father.<br />
The men crushed each other's hands<br />
in Ghanaian grips, smiling fraternally.<br />
Their teeth flashed white,<br />
the colour of money.<br />
<br />
But the kids.<br />
The kids clustered forwards,<br />
with their dark dark skin,<br />
and their milky pale palms<br />
creeping cautiously into mine<br />
to examine my white white fingers.<br />
<br />
The smallest boy stood in front of me,<br />
looked me square in the eye<br />
and grinned.<br />
Gaping, rotting gaps greeted me;<br />
a dentist's nightmare.<br />
Staring at the stalagmites<br />
in the cavern of his mouth,<br />
I wanted to cry. I wanted to hide.<br />
But he was still standing there,<br />
grinning.<br />
<br />
So I reached down to pat his head -<br />
those coarse, tightly-wound curls -<br />
as if in gentle benediction.<br />
Then: <span style="font-style: italic;">TAG!</span> I yelled and sprinted away.<br />
The word meant nothing to him;<br />
he'd never seen American movies<br />
with plump children playing chasey,<br />
but he knew what it meant<br />
when I giggled and ran away.<br />
<br />
Together we ran around the huts,<br />
scattering chickens,<br />
and the other kids joined in our play.<br />
We chased each other under those trees<br />
where cynicism is a luxury<br />
and the flesh of the cocoa bean pod<br />
is the sweetest treat.<br />
<br />
I was eighteen.</blockquote><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Published on </span>AustralianReader.comKaitlyn Plyleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09656359500788454620noreply@blogger.com0